The Other Woman
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Some temptations are impossible to resist - no matter what the sacrifice may be or who has to make it. *BEWARE - SOME REVIEWS CONTAIN SPOILERS* Rated M for adult themes.
1. The Other Woman Prologue

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**This is a slightly late birthday gift for Mattsloved1, which I wrote in the minibus, travelling back from John O'Groats, yesterday - I wasn't driving at the time! I hope she likes it!**

**The Other Woman**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, in 221B, gazing down the lens of his microscope at some interesting trace evidence that he had reconstructed, to be similar to that which had been found at the scene of a rather messy murder. It wasn't an urgent case - 40 years old, as it happened - but things were a bit slow at the Black Museum so he had had to resort to the Internet for an unsolved crime to keep him occupied. He had a good idea where this one was going and was just wondering why it had gone unsolved for so long when his phone made a noise he hadn't heard in a great while. It grabbed his attention and he opened the text immediately.

'I'm in town. Let's have dinner.'

He sat and stared at the words, as memories of the last time he had seen this person flooded his brain. That wild, savage night of unbridled lust in Karachi had been the culmination of a brief but intense association with someone he had thought never to see or hear from ever again. She was dead to him and, to all intents and purposes, to the world.

His life had altered beyond all recognition since then. He was in a relationship, now. He had responsibilities. He was no longer a free agent. Yet those memories were awakening passions he had thought long put to rest. Even the grinding sense of guilt that pierced his core could not over-ride the fiercely burning sensation of arousal that the sound of that text alert had stimulated in him. The man who had exerted such tight control over his libido for so many years found he could no longer command its obedience. This woman had power over him.

He sat and wrestled with his conscience for the longest time, picturing the look of hurt and betrayal in Molly's eyes, the looks of confusion and concern on the faces of his beloved children.

But this woman had power over him, power he could not resist.

He picked up his phone, with a groan of anguish and replied,

'When? Where?'

The reply was instantaneous.

'Here. Now.'

ooOoo

**This story was inspired by the song 'Picking Up the Pieces' by Paloma Faith.**


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Would like to dedicate this chapter to Lucy36, for her birthday. Keep the faith!**

**Chapter One**

Sherlock walked to the window and looked out. He saw her standing on the pavement opposite, waiting for a gap in the traffic, to cross the road. She looked different. Her hair was cut short, like Liza Minnelli's Sally Bowles, in 'Cabaret'. She was dressed smartly but not so stylishly as she had when he had first known her. She looked less striking, more ordinary – camouflaged. As she crossed over toward the front door of 221, she looked up, her eye caught by his movement at the window. She saw him watching and smiled her dazzling smile, showing a glimpse of her old self. He turned from the window to go down and answer the door but, as he reached the top of the stairs, he heard Mrs Hudson, down in the hallway, on her way out on some errand or other. His landlady opened the front door just as the woman reached to press the bell. They met, face to face, on the threshold.

'Oh, hello. Can I help you, dear?' he heard Mrs Hudson say, as he paused at the top of the stairs. He did not hear the woman's reply but then Mrs Hudson turned from the door and began to climb the stairs. As she reached half way, she looked up and saw him standing on the landing.

'Oh, there you are, Sherlock. There's a lady at the door, says you are expecting her, a Miss Bennett,' she exclaimed, brightly.

'Yes, I am expecting her, Mrs Hudson. Could you please send her up? Thank you,' he replied, and turned to walk back into the sitting room. By the time Miss Bennett walked into the room, he was back standing by the window. He turned a cool, steady gaze upon his visitor and asked,

'Why are you here?'

'I thought we were having dinner,' she replied, in her familiar, self-assured style, placing her handbag on John's old chair and unbuttoning her coat, to reveal a still-slim figure, dressed in a well-fitting skirt and jacket suit. Gone were the Christian Louboutin killer heels, replaced by smart but serviceable nude court shoes.

'You know what I mean. Why are you here and not in America?' he spoke tersely.

'Oh, I stuck it there for a while but it wasn't really me. I've kept the name and the back story. I'm Miss Louisa Bennett, a single, professional lady, copy editor for a small publishing house in Philadelphia. Would you like to see my card?' She reached toward her bag, as though to get said card. He crossed the room in two strides and stood over her.

'Do the Witness Protection people know where you are?' he rasped.

'God, I do hope not. I really do not want to go back there. It was so boring!' she replied, staring him down, defiantly. He stepped back, away from her and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, pursing his lips with irritation.

'So why are you here?' he asked again, stressing the third word.

'Sherlock, is there something wrong with your memory? I thought we were having dinner. You said 'where and when' and I said 'here and now'. So here I am.' She went to move toward him but he raised a hand to ward her off.

'That was a one-shot deal, Miss…Bennett. If you have left the programme, there will be no second chance.'

She looked at him and sighed, then picked up her bag and sat in the chair, placing her bag on the floor.

'Sherlock, I left the programme just two years ago. I stuck it out all that time, obeyed all the rules, kept my nose clean but it was deadly. I couldn't stand it any longer. So, I left. I just quit my job, packed my bags and left. It was such a relief!' she exclaimed.

'So where have you been for those two years and why are you here, in London, now?' he persisted.

She shrugged her shoulders, like a naughty child being asked to explain its latest misdemeanour.

'God, what on earth is the matter with you? Why would you even care?' she demanded. He sat down in the chair opposite her and folded his hands in his lap, in a strangely defensive attitude.

'You are supposed to be dead. What do you think will happen if my brother were to find out you are not only alive but back in the UK?' he explained, as though speaking to a child.

'I'm not supposed to be dead. I'm Louisa Bennett. She is dead, the other woman. What is your problem?'

'Well, you obviously want something or why else would you come to see me?' he stated, steepling his fingers, in his more usual attitude.

'Can't I just come and see an old friend?' she asked, smiling in that seductive manner he remembered so well. He studied her, critically, then replied,

'No.'

She sighed again, leant forward and removed her shoes, then tucked her feet under her, curling up in the chair, like a long, slender cat.

'Well, I can see I'm not going to get dinner. How about a cup of tea, at least?' she huffed. He considered her request for a moment, then pushed up out of his seat and walked to the kitchen, to put on the kettle. She twisted in the chair to follow him with her eyes, admiring his graceful movement and remembering their night together in Karachi. She could almost feel the smooth texture of his skin, recall the musky smell of his body, in the height of passion. As he went through the practised routine of preparing a tea tray, she watched his hands manipulate the tea pot, cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl, and recalled the touch of those hands on her own body. She shivered, at the very thought, but he was turned away from her and did not notice. When he carried the tray back into the room and served her with a cup of the hot brew, she took the cup and saucer from him, with a demure nod of her head. He took his own tea and returned to his chair.

'So, what have you been up to for the last two years?' he asked, in a gentler tone.

'Oh, I've made my way, you know,' she replied, with a saucy smile. He raised an eyebrow, to elicit a more detailed explanation. 'Don't worry; I haven't been up to my old tricks. I have kept a very low profile,' she assured him.

'And now you are here. So, what changed?' he probed.

She looked down, seemed to consider her options but then came to a decision. She shrugged again and then came clean.

'I need your help. Someone is stalking me. I don't know who they are or why they are doing it but they have been following me for the last three weeks. I've moved five times – five different towns in five different countries – but, after a day or so, I see them again.' For the first time, in his experience of her, she seemed afraid. Even in the mountains of Pakistan, facing imminent death, she had not shown fear, so it was disturbing to see it in her face and eyes now. He felt his stomach tense in response to her distress. He fought the impulse to close the physical gap between them. Maintaining his detached expression, he asked for a description of the stalker, to keep his mind off his churning emotions.

'It's a man. He's tall, blond, clean-shaven, looks Scandinavian, though I've never heard him speak, so I don't know if he has an accent. I first noticed him in Athens. I was walking one morning in the Agora when I spotted him. The whole of that day, he was always there, in my peripheral vision. So, that evening, I checked out of my hotel, went straight to the airport and flew to Naples. Four days later, he was there, at Sant'Elmo, same pattern as before, always in my peripheral vision. He never made any attempt to approach me but he didn't try to hide, either. I flitted again, this time to Sardinia. It took him five days to find me there, at the Cagliari Cathedral. Next, I went to Barcelona. For four days, I looked out for him, everywhere and then I saw him, at the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya. I nearly had a heart attack! I went straight back to my hotel, checked out and flew to Lausanne. I stayed in my hotel for three days before I dared to set foot outside but, the first time I did, I saw him. He knew where I was, even though I had been in hiding. I don't know how he knows where I go. So, I came here. I landed at Heathrow this morning and came straight here. I haven't even checked into a hotel. My luggage is being held for me at the airport until I tell them where to send it.' She paused in her long monologue and fixed him with a pleading look.

'Can I stay here? Please?'

He stared back at her then shook his head.

'I don't live here, now. This is my work space. If you stayed here, you would be alone,' he explained.

'I don't care. I think he may track me through the hotel registers. If I don't register at a hotel, he won't have any leads. Please, Sherlock, I don't have anyone else I can turn to. I don't know anyone else. They all think I'm dead!'

Her choice of words could not have been more honed to pierce his resolve. He knew, all too well, what that felt like – to be dead in the eyes of the world. He knew how it was to be an out-cast, alone and unprotected, afraid and isolated. Oh, god, why had she not just stayed in the witness protection programme, safe from harm? He stood up and walked over to the window, weighing up the consequences of giving in to her request for sanctuary. On the most practical level, it would make working here difficult. But he had no other cases, so he would be working on her behalf, anyway. It could put Mrs Hudson in danger. But he could arrange constant surveillance through the Homeless Network. They would alert him if anything untoward occurred. She was probably right about the hotel register being his information source. But she could check in under a false name, now she was back in the UK. She would not need to show her passport to the hotel staff. As he stood, looking out of the window but deep in thought, she had moved up behind him. When she touched him on the arm, he jumped as though he had been stung and stepped past her, moving over to the fire place, where he turned to face her again. She looked at him, with a puzzled expression, then returned to sit on John's chair, tucking her legs under her again.

'If you don't live here, where do you live? And what's happened to your flat mate, Dr Watson?' she asked, beginning to sense that there was more to his skittish behaviour than annoyance that she abandoned her safe haven.

He came and sat back down, too, and, with pursed lips, formulated the right words before looking up and saying,

'John Watson is married, has been for nearly five years, now. I live near Smithfield. In a flat. With my partner. And our two children.'

She stared at him, almost open-mouthed with surprise, then closed her eyes and gasped, shaking her head from side to side, as though to clear it.

'I am sorry, Sherlock, but you really have surprised me. I don't know what to say!'

'You don't need to say anything. In fact, you must not say anything. I will tell Molly that a client, Miss Louisa Bennett, is staying at 221B and I will explain why but she must not know who you really are or that we once had…..' He stopped, searching for the right epithet for what they had had. 'Sex,' he said, at last. 'It would upset her.'

'Don't you think it will upset her more if you don't tell her?' the woman asked.

'If I told her we had sex, I would have to explain how that came about, how I know you and that would make both you and her more vulnerable. The fewer people who know who you really are, the better. You and I are two too many, to be frank. Do not tell Mrs Hudson that we were...acquainted. And do NOT even think of going out anywhere. I will have people watching the house so, if you try to leave, I will know. I can't protect you, if you go wandering around, understood?' he snapped, clearly disconcerted by the whole situation. She had to smile at his discomfort.

'So, who is this woman, who pierced the defences of the impregnable fortress that was the great Sherlock Holmes?' she asked, provocatively.

'Molly Hooper, the pathologist at Bart's, with whom I have worked for years. She PM'ed your body, the first time you died,' he explained.

'Well, lucky girl,' she replied. He stared hard at her and then said,

'No, quite the contrary. Lucky me. I don't know why she puts up with me but she does and I don't want her upset. So you are just a client. We never met before today and you are only staying here until I can deal with this stalker. Then you will go back to being dead, please.'

Even as he spoke these words, he knew that his agitation was giving him away. He could feel the sweat on his palms and the increase in his heart rate and, no doubt, his pupils would be dilated. His body continued to betray him and she knew it. The sooner he could solve this case and get her out of his life again, the better.

ooOoo


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock looked at 'Louisa', over the screen of his laptop.

'Is that everything?' he asked.

'Yes, I think so. It will tide me over for a day or two, at least.'

'Good,' he said, pressed 'Send' and snapped the lap top closed. 'They will deliver it all tomorrow. In the meantime, there's milk and bread in the fridge. You can order a take away for tonight.'

'Will you be dining with me?' she asked, tilting her head to one side and pouting a little.

'No, I will not. I will be at home with my family. Now, remember what I said. Don't go out. Don't even stand in the window, in case you're seen. I have arranged for someone to watch the house, round the clock. They will see if anyone is hanging around – or if anyone leaves.' He gave her a hard look, as he said that.

'Why would I want to leave, when you're being so welcoming?' she muttered, rolling her eyes and pouting still more.

He stood up and walked over to the sitting room door, to get his coat and scarf. Putting them on, he picked up his laptop and turned to look at her again.

'I'm assuming those places where you spotted your stalker have CCTV? I'll access their records tonight and see if I can spot him. Once I have his image, it shouldn't be too hard to find out who he is and to track him down.' He didn't wait for a response or say goodbye, just turned and walked out of the room and down the stairs.

Once in the hallway, he tapped on Mrs Hudson's door. There was no reply, so he took out his notebook and scribbled a message which he then folded and stuck in the metal frame that might once have held a name card but was currently empty, but for his note. He walked to the front door and exited onto the pavement. Once outside, he took out his mobile and speed-dialled John's number. He picked up after three rings.

'Sherlock, what's occurring?' John opened the conversation, employing the idiom of a popular TV sit com – well, popular with him, at least.

'I need your help on a case, John. Can we meet?'

'Well, I'm at work right now. I finish in half an hour but then I have to collect Lily Rose from the child minder.'

'I can meet you at the hospital and we could talk on the way over, couldn't we?'

'Yes, I suppose we could. OK, meet me by the Main Entrance, in half an hour.' Without further preamble, they both hung up.

Sherlock looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. Molly would be finishing work now, collecting Freddie from the crèche and walking home. He wrote a text:

'Meeting J to discuss a case. Will be home for supper. SH x'

He pressed 'send' and put the phone back in his pocket. He would walk to St Mary's. It wouldn't take half an hour but it would give him time to think. He looked across the road and spotted a young man, wearing a hoody, under a puffer jacket, and a woollen hat. He sucked on a hand-rolled cigarette, as he leaned against the wall of the building opposite. Sherlock crossed the road and, as he passed the man, casually dropped a piece of screwed up paper into the gutter. The man waited until Sherlock had passed, then knelt and picked up the twenty pound note, stuffing it into his pocket.

Upstairs, in 221B, 'Louisa' stood by the window and peeped round the curtain. She watched Sherlock stride off down the street, then took out her mobile phone.

The person on the other end picked up at the first ring.

'Well?' they asked.

'I'm in,' she replied.

'God, that was easy.'

'I told you it would be. He thinks he's my Knight in Shining Armour. He would never refuse me. But there is a complication.'

'Which is?'

'He's attached.'

'To what?'

'To a woman, apparently. Not only that, they have children.'

'That could work to our advantage.'

'Oh, no. We can't use his family for leverage.'

'Why not? Are you going soft on me?'

'Don't be ridiculous! No, you don't know him. If we threatened his family, he would probably kill us. We mustn't make him angry'

'OK, I suppose I'll have to take your word for that. Anyway, hopefully, he will do what you ask and we can get the hell out of here, as soon as possible.'

'Ok. Now, whatever you do, don't let him catch you. Don't come here – he's having the place watched. And try to avoid CCTV. He has access to the database, through his brother. If he spots you, the game is up.'

'Don't worry, I'm invisible.'

'Good. Make sure you stay that way.' She shut off the call and stood, for a moment, tapping the phone against her jaw, then turned away from the window, sat down in Sherlock's chair and switched on the TV.

ooOoo

Sherlock was sitting on a bench, outside St Mary's, when John emerged from the building and looked around. The two men spotted one another at the same time and John walked over as Sherlock stood up.

'What's it all about then, Alfie?' John asked.

'What…? John, do you think you could try not quoting popular culture at me? You know I don't understand any of the references.'

'Really? Not important enough to save on your hard drive? What on earth do you and Molly talk about, in the evening, after the kids are put to bed?'

'Stuff.'

'What kind of stuff?'

'Stuff stuff. And none of your business stuff. Where is this child minder?'

'St John's Wood.' John began to walk towards the Underground.

'Where are you going?' Sherlock asked and put out his arm to hail a cab.

'Oh, yeah, I forgot, Mr Moneybags.'

Sherlock chose to ignore that remark, opening the door, as the cab pulled over and climbing in. John gave the child minder's address and followed suit.

Settling back in the seat of the cab, John looked at his friend enquiringly. Sherlock just launched straight in.

'John, she's back.'

'Who's back?'

'The Woman'

'What woman?'

'Don't be obtuse, John, THE Woman. Irene Adler.'

John looked puzzled and also shocked.

'What do you mean, she's back? Back where?'

'Here, in London, in Baker Street, in fact, in my flat.'

'That's not possible. She can't be.' John shook his head and looked at Sherlock in alarm, as though he were concerned for the other man's sanity.

'It is, indeed, possible, John, however improbable, because she is, in fact, there.'

John looked at his friend and was clearly struggling with some inner demon but, at last, he spoke.

'Sherlock, she's dead. She died, months ago, - years ago. She can't be back. Have you taken something?'

Sherlock stared at John, with an expression of both hurt and exasperation.

'I didn't mean that in a bad way,' John said, apologetically.

'Oh, I see. You accused me of relapsing in a good way. Sorry, I should have known.'

'No, I didn't mean to infer that you had relapsed. Oh, shit, I don't know what I meant. But one thing is for absolute certain. That woman is dead.'

Sherlock gave his friend a quizzical look.

'She was in a Witness Protection programme, in America, John. That's what you told me, wasn't it?'

John turned and looked out of the window, momentarily, then down at his hands and, eventually, back at Sherlock.

'Yes, that's what I told you but I lied. She was killed, Sherlock – beheaded by a terrorist group, in Karachi.'

'That's what Mycroft told you, yes?'

John looked very chagrined, now.

'Yes, it is. He said only you could have fooled him and you weren't there.'

He opened his hands, in a gesture of apology.

'But I was,' Sherlock declared, fixing John with an almost triumphant glare. John looked at him in disbelief.

'How could you have been? That's not possible,' he spluttered.

'I think we've already had this part of the conversation but, for the sake of continuity, I will repeat myself. It is, indeed, possible, John, however improbable. I was there and I did rescue her from the terrorists. She was, indeed, in a Witness Protection programme, in America, which I negotiated for her with the American diplomatic service. And they convinced Mycroft that she was dead. I believe they even provided a video of the execution – I don't know how they managed that, but they did.'

John was quite flabbergasted. Would Sherlock ever cease to surprise him?

'So, when Mycroft decided to tell you that she was in a Witness Protection programme, she actually was?'

Sherlock nodded, with a self-satisfied smile.

'But now you say she's back?'

The smile disappeared, immediately.

'Yes, unfortunately, she is and she has asked for my help.'

'Well, you can't help her, can you,' John stated, bluntly.

'I have said I will, that's why I need your help.'

John looked at Sherlock, askance.

'That woman is nothing but trouble, Sherlock. She should have stayed put in the programme. You don't owe her anything.'

'She's being stalked. She needed somewhere to hide. I've told her she can stay at 221B.'

'Are you nuts? What do you think Molly's going to say?'

'She won't have any reason to say anything. Irene is still using her new identity. I'll tell Molly that I have a client, called Louisa Bennett, staying at the flat. She never met Irene – not the real one, anyway – so, even if she should see her, she won't know who she is.'

'You are making a huge mistake, Sherlock. Don't lie to Molly. You will live to regret it, trust me. I know from personal experience. Just do not go there.'

'I can't tell her who Irene is. It would upset her.'

'Why would it? It's not as if you had a relationship with her, or anything?'

Sherlock turned away, gazing out of the window, pursing his lips.

'Sherlock? You didn't, did you? Don't tell me you did?'

'Oh, alright, John, for God's sake! Is it that hard to believe?'

John was utterly gob-smacked. When he eventually regained the power of speech, he blurted out.

'When? Where? How?'

'Good God, John, did I ever ask you for the intimate details of your assignations?'

'No, of course not. You weren't interested. And that, not wishing to appear indelicate, is my point. You weren't interested in…..that sort of thing. Transport, you said, everything else is just transport.'

'Yes….well….I was a long way from home; we'd just pulled off a daring and dramatic rescue. I was pumped. And I never thought I would ever see her again. No one needed to be any the wiser.'

'But now she's back and you are lying to your long-term partner, the mother of your children about who she is and what she once meant to you…..'

'She never meant anything to me, John. I wasn't in love with her. It was lust, pure and simple.'

'Oh, right, that's why you travelled, in secret, all the way to Karachi and risked your life to rescue her, and called in countless favours with the Yanks, to secure her future. Doesn't sound like lust to me.'

'Perhaps not, John, but you are not me. I felt I owed her, that's all. And I was attracted to her, but there was never any emotional engagement. We spent one night together. It was my reward, my payment – one night of rampant sex, on the house.'

'Sherlock, I really do not want to hear the gory details.'

'Make up your mind. You were asking me when, where, how a minute ago.'

The cab drew to a halt and the cabbie turned around and said,

'This has been a very entertaining journey, gents, but we are here and I am afraid this is NOT on the house. That will be ten quid, please.'

The two men alighted from the cab and Sherlock paid the grinning cabbie, feeling a little exposed. As they walked towards the child minder's door, John said,

'Well, after what I just learned, I'm going to have to completely revise everything I thought I knew about you, mate!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes to heaven and then looked down, expectantly, at his diminutive friend.

'Look, I will help you with the case but, take my advice. Whatever history you have with Irene, come clean to Molly. If you don't and she finds out, it could be disastrous for your relationship. If you don't tell her, she will assume you have something to hide. Guilty as charged. Tell her the truth.'

John knocked at the door of the child-minder and the conversation was over.

ooOoo

Sherlock pushed open the door to the flat he shared with Molly and their children, stepped into the hall and closed the door. He was just unfastening his coat when William came barrelling through from the sitting room and threw himself at his father. Sherlock caught him and swung him up into his arms.

'Daddy! Guess what?' William shrieked, in great excitement.

'You know I never guess, William,' Sherlock laughed.

'Alright, Daddy, deduce what,' William grinned back. Sherlock drew his head back a little, pressed his lips into a thin line and narrowed his eyes, looking intently at his son.

'OK, let me see. Hmm.' He took hold of the little boy's hand and inspected his fingers, closely, then scanned up and down his body.

'Right, I deduce that you had spaghetti bolognaise for lunch, followed by rice pudding. You also had a rich tea biscuit, probably at Afternoon Playtime.'

William giggled but didn't give any indication as to the veracity of these statements.

'You had a violin lesson, today, and you were practicing pizzicato. You played on the rope swing, at lunchtime, and you had another fight with Alya.'

He looked William in the eye and said,

'How did I do?'

'It wasn't really a fight, Daddy. She pushed me so I pushed her back, that's all.'

Sherlock feigned disappointment, shaking his head, in mock frustration.

'You only pushed her? Oh, there's always something.'

Sherlock carried William into the sitting room. Molly was in the kitchen, mashing potatoes for supper. Nine months old, Freddie was sitting on his play mat, in front of the sofa, surrounded by an eclectic mix of toys. He looked up, as Sherlock came in through the door, gave a toothy grin and, rolling onto his hands and feet, bear-walked toward his father. Sherlock knelt down on the floor and Freddie put his hands on his father's thigh to push himself to standing.

'You still haven't deduced what, though, Daddy,' William reminded.

'Haven't I? Hello, Freddie! Daddy's home!'

Freddie looked up, still grinning, and very slowly, took his hands off Sherlock's thigh and stood up straight. Sherlock opened his mouth, in surprise, as his youngest son stood unsupported for at least three seconds before his knees gave way and he plopped down on his well-padded bottom.

'Oh, Baby Bin, you gave it away!' William groaned.

Molly had come round the kitchen table and was standing, watching Freddie demonstrate his newest accomplishment. Sherlock looked at her, still smiling, incredulously.

'He's been doing that all day, apparently. His record, so far, is about ten seconds. Make the most of it. He'll be racing round the place, before we know it.'

Meanwhile, the littlest Hooper-Holmes was pulling himself back up onto his feet and climbing into Sherlock's lap, clutching at his jacket lapels, to pull himself upright, again, balancing precariously on his father's thigh. Sherlock put his free arm round the baby and hugged him and William to his chest.

'Well, how clever is that, William? Freddie can stand up on his own!'

'Yes, he's very clever but he did give it away.'

Sherlock kissed William on his forehead.

'He was too excited to wait for me to deduce it. He'll learn.'

'Come on, boys, supper's ready. William, go and wash your hands, please, babe.'

Sherlock let go of William, who raced off to the bathroom to wash his hands. Holding Freddie in his arms, he stood up and walked into the kitchen, to put the baby in his high chair and fasten a clean bib round his neck before wiping his little hands with a baby wipe.

'Busy day?' Molly asked, as she served out the supper.

'Yes, I have a new case. I'll tell you all about it when the boys are in bed,' Sherlock replied, giving her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, before sitting down next to Freddie, since he was on feeding duty tonight.

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Three**

After William and Freddie enjoyed their communal bath, Sherlock took William into his room for his bedtime story and Molly sat on the sofa, to give Freddie his bedtime feed. It was more of a comfort feed than anything else. He was eating solids now and getting all the nutrition he needed from that source but she still fed him, first thing in the morning and last thing at night, because they both enjoyed it so much. It was 'their time', especially since she had returned to work, when he was six months old. Molly loved breast feeding and Freddie loved it too. She knew that it caused the release of endorphins in both their brains but she didn't care that it was just a chemical reaction. All human emotion was a chemical reaction. So what! The prolonged eye contact that she and Freddie shared, when she fed him, was the highlight of her day. She felt she could read his thoughts, in those eyes, and, when she looked into them, she saw pure love.

Freddie had cut his first teeth when he was five months old and now had six – two at the top and four at the bottom – and lots of nursing mothers gave up feeding, when the dentition arrived, but Freddie was so gentle. He had never bitten her, not once, not even when his gums were sore and he was gnawing on everything in sight. As his eyelids began to droop and he drifted off to sleep, she lifted him up onto her shoulder and rubbed his back, to bring up any wind he might have swallowed, as she carried him to his bedroom – which doubled as the guest room. She laid him in his cot, pulled his duvet over him and dropt a kiss on his head then left the room, pulling the door to behind her.

She paused outside William's door and could hear Sherlock reading 'The Hobbit', doing all the voices. Just at this moment, he was alternating between Gollum and Bilbo, doing the riddle interlude. She could picture William's face, eyes wide and shining, mouth forming a small 'o', transfixed by the drama. Smiling to herself, she left them to it and walked through to the kitchen to put on the kettle. She had been able to drink tea, again, for a couple of months and she was back to eight cups a day, but she made it weaker than usual. She didn't think Freddie would enjoy tea-flavoured milk. Waiting for the kettle, she started to unload the dishwasher.

When Sherlock emerged from the bedrooms, she was sitting at the kitchen table. He came and sat opposite her, reached for the tea pot and poured them both a cup of the steaming liquid. There was something so relaxing about a cup of tea.

'OK, what's your new case about?' she asked..

Sherlock had prepared for this moment. He knew that John was right, that he should tell her everything, and he really did want to but he had been reviewing this conversation, in his head, all the way home from St John's Wood and he still hadn't found the right words. However he tried to phrase it, it came out wrong. He'd already let his guard down very badly, talking about the case in the cab. He had even said her real name. That was at the beginning of the conversation so maybe the cabbie hadn't been listening that closely, then, but it was still a grave error. Irene had always had the power to unsettle him. Damn her!

Molly knew that something wasn't right. He was usually excited by a new case, enlivened, hyperactive, euphoric. But, as soon as she raised the subject, his whole demeanour changed. His body language was guarded and withdrawn, his face closed in and his eyes, the windows to his soul, darkened, like the gathering of storm clouds in a summer sky. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, her lungs felt tight and her blood, suddenly, ran cold.

He reached across the table and took her hand, then looked, earnestly, into her eyes, before speaking.

'About six years ago, I helped a woman disappear. She had gotten involved with some very dangerous people and was about to be executed by a group of terrorists. I rescued her and helped her to get a new identity, to start a new life. I thought I would never see her again.' He stopped, to let Molly process this information, then went on.

'But, today, she turned up at Baker Street. She'd left the new life, in America, and come back to Europe, but now she thinks she's being stalked. She asked me to find out who is after her and why, and she needed somewhere to hide, so I said she could stay at 221B, while I investigate the case.'

All Molly's instincts were tingling. There was more to this than Sherlock was letting on and it had nothing to do with terrorists, stalkers or new identities. This woman was significant to him. It was so obvious.

'Why did she come to you?' she asked, hesitantly, almost afraid to hear the answer. 'Why didn't she go to the police? There are laws against stalking, after all.'

'She can't go to the police. I can't tell you why, I'm sorry.' He gave a small shrug, looking down at their clasped hands. She waited for him to continue, alarmed at his discomfiture. Then, he shook his head and took a deep breath looking up at her, again.

'Molly, for your own safety, the less you know about this case the better…'

'It's her, isn't it, the woman with the phone, the one who likes to play games?'

'What?'

She knew, by the shock on his face that she was right.

'How did you know?' he gasped. This must be what it's like, he thought, for other people, when he just looked at them and then told them their life history.

'Sherlock, you said it was six years ago.'

'Yes, I know, but why would you remember – about the phone….and the games?'

'How could I forget? It was the first time I'd seen you show any interest in a woman. And it wasn't just a professional interest, either. I was so jealous of her, even though I'd never met her, had no idea who she was or how you knew her.'

'You had met her – well, one incarnation of her. You PM'd her body.'

Now it was Molly's turn to look puzzled.

'The woman I came to identify, that Christmas Eve,' he explained.

'The one you knew from 'not her face'? The one I was even more jealous of – even though she was dead – because you had obviously seen her naked? But how could that be her? That woman was definitely dead.'

'It was her first attempt at disappearing. She sent me her phone and a body that looked like hers. She fooled me.'

'Good grief, Sherlock, the games she plays are deadly ones. She didn't just happen upon the body of a woman who, by strange coincidence, looked enough like her to fool you, did she?'

'No, I suppose not,' he conceded, looking down at their hands again.

'Sherlock, what does this woman mean to you?'

His gaze flew back to her face and he gripped her hand, vehemently, with both of his.

'Nothing, Molly, she is nothing to me. I sw...'

Molly held up her free hand and he stopped talking, abruptly. She put that hand on top of both of his and, gently, loosened his fingers, then took one of his hands in each of hers.

'Sherlock, it's OK. Please, calm down. I'm not accusing you of anything.'

He closed his eyes and put his head down on his arm, stretched out across the table. She released one hand and reached across to run her fingers through his hair, before continuing, in a quiet, soothing voice.

'I asked the wrong question. What I should have said is, what did she mean to you six years ago?'

He raised his head and rubbed his face with his free hand, before replying,

'We spent one night together, just one night, in Karachi, after I rescued her.' His voice was hoarse, almost a groan, as though he were in pain.

Molly felt tears sting her eyes and a lump rise in her throat, and she blinked and swallowed to try to push them back. She had no right to feel hurt. This happened six years ago, before…..well, not before he knew her. And certainly not before he knew how she felt about him. But he'd never shown her any interest, despite everything she had done for him. And then, this woman comes along, who plays games and gets mixed up with dangerous people and, next thing you know, he's charging off to Karachi to rescue her and spend a night…

'Molly, please, don't cry!' His voice cracked with anguish. He was staring at her, across the table, his face contorted with pain. She opened her mouth to speak but the only sound that emerged was that of convulsive sobs, that shook her body. He pushed himself out of the chair and dropt to his knees, next to her chair, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face to her shoulder.

'I didn't want to tell you but I knew I had to. I never meant to hurt you. Please, believe me, please.'

She wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault, she didn't blame him, she was being irrational. She knew all that was true. But the pain was so real. She put her arms around him. She could feel his chest convulsing, too. This helped her regain control. She had no right to make him suffer. She stroked his hair and rested her cheek on his head. He lifted his face to look at her and she brushed the tears off his cheeks with her thumb and kissed him, feeling his lips tremble against her own.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

He shook his head and touched her mouth with his fingertips but she clasped his hand and moved it away.

'Sherlock, look at me,' she insisted. He raised his gaze to meet her own. Her voice was steady, now. 'This happened six years ago, before anything happened between us. You were a free agent. You had every right to spend the night with this woman. You have nothing to feel guilty about.'

He swallowed, still not trusting his voice. She went on,

'You never asked this woman to come asking for your help, again. And I understand why you've agreed to help her. If one of my ex-boyfriends came to me, I would feel obliged to help him, too. And I am grateful that you told me. If you hadn't and I had found out later, then I would have had reason to be upset. And I am still a bit hormonal, you know, prone to sudden emotional outbursts.'

He reached up and stroked her cheek then pulled her face down to meet his, pressing their mouths together. When they broke apart, he fixed her with his most intense stare and said,

'It was just sex, Molly, with her. Pure physical gratification. It's never been like that with you, not from that very first night. I want you to know that.'

'I do know that,' she whispered. 'I've always known that. But thank you for saying it.'

He pushed himself up to his feet, feeling stiff and cramped from kneeling on the floor, and both physically and emotionally drained. He knew there was a lot more to be said about his relationship to Irene but not here and not now. He took Molly by the hand and led her through the sitting room and down the corridor to the bedroom. He needed to lie down and he wanted to feel her next to him. He was, to all intents and purposes, fully recovered from the assault he had suffered fifteen months before, but he was aware that his body was less resilient, especially to stress and this had been a very stressful day. He sank onto the bed and rolled onto his side. She stretched out next to him and wrapped herself around him. In seconds, he was asleep.

ooOoo


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Four**

Next day, at the first opportunity, Molly phoned John. She had just dropped Freddie off, in the Baby Room, at the hospital crèche. He had only recently begun to show separation anxiety, when she left him . She knew it was just a normal milestone in his development, but it still tugged at her heart when he cried, as she handed him over to the nursery staff. She also knew that, as soon as she was gone, he would stop crying and get on with his day. That didn't make it any easier to bear.

'Molly, hi, how's it going?'

She and John exchanged greetings and Molly enquired about Mary and Lily Rose. With the pleasantries observed, she cut to the chase.

John, are you working with Sherlock today?'

'Er, I don't know, to be honest.' John felt instantly put on the spot. He had no idea how much or how little Sherlock had told Molly and he did not want to put his foot in it.

'He's asked me to help him with this new case but he hasn't told me what he needs me to do, yet. Is there a problem?'

'I'm worried about him. He's a bit fragile, today.'

'Fragile? In what way?' he fished, frantically.

'He told me what happened in Karachi, John. I didn't take it very well – which I'm not proud of – and that really upset him. He feels so guilty, now, and he's not dealing with it very well. I tried to make him understand that what happened six years ago has nothing to do with how we are now, but the damage was already done. I was hoping you could, you know, just keep an eye on him.'

John muttered a curse under his breath. He'd urged Sherlock to come clean so he felt partly responsible for the outcome.

'I'm sorry to put this on you, John, but you're his best friend and you're a bloke – obviously – so you can talk to him - man to man, I mean.'

'No need to apologise, Molly, really. I'm more than glad to look out for him. But I am on 'days', this week, so I won't be seeing him until this evening, if at all. Tell you what, though, I'll ring him and see what's what, OK?'

'Yes, please, John, I would really appreciate that. And, John?' she paused, briefly and he just waited for her to go on.

'This woman, she sounds dangerous. Does Sherlock know what he's getting into?'

'I think he does but he feels obliged to help her. She can be very manipulative. But try not to worry, Molly. I will keep him out of trouble.'

Molly thanked him again and ended the call. She had reached the door to the Path Lab. She put her phone into her bag and switched her self to 'work' mode.

ooOoo

Sherlock was feeling raw. He had virtually passed out when his head hit the pillow and had not known anything else until Molly woke him at around eleven. He was still fully clothed and lying on top of the duvet. He had stripped off his clothes and crawled under the duvet and was asleep again. But he hadn't had a restful night. His dreams were plagued by flashbacks to Karachi – the elaborate CIA plot to infiltrate the Islamist group holding Irene, the interception of the Executioner, so that he could take that man's place, maintaining the deception through sunset prayers and, finally, the daring rescue and escape. These memories were not unpleasant, although they did cause him to toss and turn and mutter Pashto phrases in his sleep. But the dreams then moved to the American High Commission and his night-time exploits with the former dominatrix, who was surprisingly submissive in his arms, but whose face suddenly morphed into that of Moriarty, which caused him to cry out, waking both himself and Molly. He was almost afraid to go back to sleep, after that episode, but Molly's gentle hands and voice soothed him and he drifted back into a dreamless state which, thankfully, held him until morning.

Molly's reaction the night before had been exactly what he had been dreading, his worst nightmare, and, although she had apologised – which cut him to the quick – he knew exactly what lay at the root of her pain and hurt. No, they were not an item back then. He was still exploiting her obvious attraction to him, in order to gain access to bodies, body parts and lab facilities, whilst holding her, shamelessly, at arm's length. But she had rationalised his rejection of her by reference to his singular lack of interest in woman in general. So, to suddenly learn that he had travelled half way around the world and risked his life to rescue this woman and then enjoyed a night of unbridled lust with her, that had been like a dagger to Molly's heart. He knew all this. She didn't need to explain.

And then there were the imagined parallels that she might draw between his one-night stand with Irene and the night he spent with her, before he went away. Only he knew how different those two nights had been – poles apart – the first, a wanton indulgence in base animal passions; the second, an emotional and physical unfolding, explored through the exposure, to one another, of their deepest vulnerabilities. There was no comparison. So why did he still feel guilty? The answer to that question was all too obvious. Irene's sudden reappearance had caught him off guard and his body had responded before his mind could intervene. Like a bitch on heat, she had stimulated his feral instincts. He was an adult male, was he not? But experiencing these impulses did not mean he had to act upon them. Molly's reaction to his revelations had struck him to the core, caused him to unravel, rendered him inert. He could not even contemplate how she might respond to a real betrayal without feeling his stomach clench and his heart lurch. He was a human being, not an animal. He must resist her attraction.

These thoughts occupied him, in the cab, on his way to Baker Street. Having dropped William off at school, he made his way to 221B. As he let himself in, through the front door, he steeled himself against what he might find, when he entered the flat upstairs. He hoped she didn't greet him as she had the first time they met. He had been able to hide his visceral response, that time. He wasn't sure he would do so well, now. On the floor, in the hallway, was a bright orange grocery box, containing the supplies that Sherlock had ordered for her, on line, the day before. He would collect them later. Mounting the stairs, two at a time, he strode purposefully into the sitting room. There was evidence of her presence – her shoes abandoned on the floor, by John's chair, her handbag on the desk.

Sherlock removed the handbag, placing it disdainfully on the floor, next to her shoes, and opened his laptop on the desk. Sitting down, he tapped at the keys, connecting, via a circuitous route, through various search engines, to a CCTV network in Lausanne. He typed in the name of the street where the hotel, at which Irene had stayed, was located. This gave him the serial numbers of the cameras on that street. Using this information, he accessed the stored video footage taken from these cameras. He quickly plotted their individual positions, on the schematic, finding the one positioned directly outside the main entrance to that building – quite a classy establishment, plush, expensive, very 'Irene' – and, focusing on the data collected by that particular camera, he typed in the date on which Irene claimed to have seen the mystery man loitering out in the street. So far, so easy. Now he just needed a half-decent mug-shot of the person in question. The next part was down to her. She needed to look at all the footage and try to pick out an image of her stalker.

Sherlock got up from the desk and walked across the landing to the door to his bedroom. He knocked loudly on the door and called,

'Miss Bennett, I need you to look at some CCTV footage,' in a brusque, business-like voice. He then turned and walked into the kitchen, to put on the kettle. He hoped she would not take all day to emerge from his room. He wanted to get this case done and dusted in the shortest possible time. As soon as he had an image to work from, he could put it through some facial recognition software and get an identity. Then, at least, he would know who he was up against. As he stood in the kitchen, brewing a pot of tea, he heard the bedroom door open and Irene appeared, in the doorway, wearing his second-best dressing gown, which he kept here, for when he stayed over. She looked dishevelled, with her bed hair and no makeup, and disturbingly desirable. He picked up the tea pot and poured two mugs of English Breakfast. Pushing one across the counter top, towards her, he picked up the other and walked past her, into the sitting room and over to his chair, where he sat.

'Have a look at the footage on my laptop and tell me when you spot your stalker,' he snapped, sharply.

'Oh, and a very good morning to you, too, Mr Manners,' she quipped, archly, taking up her mug and carrying it to John's chair, where she curled up in her characteristically catlike way.

Sherlock sipped his tea and drummed his fingers, impatiently, on the arm of his chair but chose not to reply to her sarcasm.

'What time of day was it when you saw your stalker outside the hoel in Lausanne?' he asked, abruptly. She made an elaborate show of wrinkling her brows and thinking really hard and then said,

'Oh, about mid-day. I was just about to go out to lunch.' He got up and went over to the laptop, entered a time for the camera's stored data and pressed the 'search' button. An image came up, in freeze frame. He picked up the laptop and took it over to her, pushing it into her lap.

'I've set it to eleven thirty, local time. Scroll through it and stop when you spot your man. I need to speak to Mrs Hudson. I'll be back in a few minutes.' He walked out of the sitting room and trotted down the stairs. He needed to get out of there. As she had curled up on the chair, the dressing gown had gaped at the top, giving a tantalizing view of her breasts. He knew she was doing it on purpose but he also knew that, if he asked her to stop, she would know she had unnerved him. Of course, charging out of the room probably told her that too, but at least he didn't have to look at her right now.

He tapped on Mrs Hudson's door and heard his landlady approach from the other side.

'Hello, dear, come on in,' she greeted and stood to one side to let him enter. 'I've just put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?' He said he would love one and she led the way into her kitchen, gesturing towards the kitchen table, inviting him to take a seat.

'I got your note, about that woman staying in your flat,' she advised him.

'I hope she hasn't disturbed you,' he replied.

'No, she's been very quiet. I heard the TV a bit, last night, but I haven't heard anything at all this morning. I don't think she's a particularly early riser.'

'I suspect you may be right,' he concurred. 'Has she had any visitors?' he asked.

'Someone came from the airport, last night, and delivered her case. She got him to carry it upstairs for her, then he left. The Sainsbury's delivery van came this morning and left a box of groceries. They're in the hall.'

'Yes, thank you, I saw them as I came in. I'm hoping she won't be here very long,' he commented.

'She's been here before, hasn't she?' Mrs Hudson remarked, as she poured them both a cup of tea. Sherlock looked at her, questioningly. Would Mrs Hudson remember her from six years ago, too? Women had phenomenally selective memories, he marvelled.

'Yes, I remember seeing her once before. It was that night Mycroft sent a car for you, with that man with the beard. Your bell wasn't working because you'd shot it so I had to bring him upstairs. She was all over you, I seem to remember. She looked most put out when I appeared. Her hair is shorter now and she's less flashy but it's definitely her,' she concluded.

'Mrs Hudson, you never cease to amaze me. Have you ever considered a career in Intelligence?' he teased her. She ruffled his hair, affectionately, and chuckled.

'A woman knows when another woman is 'the wrong sort' and she was definitely that then. And I suspect she's still that now, although she looks a bit more respectable. Does Molly know she's staying here?'

'Yes, she does. I told her, last night.'

'Good. I would hate for her to find out some time in the future and think you'd had a mistress installed here!'

Sherlock looked affronted.

'Even I wouldn't be so stupid as to keep a mistress in the same building as you, Mrs Hudson,' he declared.

'Oh, you've given it some thought, then,' she replied.

'None whatsoever,' he declared. 'I have no need of a mistress, I assure you. '

'I'm very glad to hear it,' she smiled, patting his hand.

He thanked her for the tea and returned upstairs, taking the grocery box with him. He was still coming to terms with the realisation that he had just discussed his sex life with his landlady but he had to admit that, if he should ever need to talk to anyone about that sort of thing, she would definitely be one of a very short list of possibles. In fact, he thought he could probably talk to her about anything.

He put the groceries on the kitchen table and walked back into the sitting room. 'Louisa' was no longer there but the laptop was and it was frozen on the image of a tall, blond, pale-skinned young man, who was looking decidedly furtive, standing across from the hotel. Sherlock took a screen grab and downloaded it onto his hard drive. He snapped the laptop shut and was preparing to leave when she came out of the bedroom, fully dressed, carrying her coat over her arm.

'Where are you going?' he asked.

'With you,' she replied, giving him a coquettish smile.

'No, you're not. You have to stay inside. I can't keep you safe if you leave the flat.'

'But I'll be with you,' she pouted.

'You wouldn't want to go where I'm going,' he replied.

'Perhaps I should be allowed to decide that for myself,' she huffed.

'New Scotland Yard?' he raised his eyebrows, inquiringly. She pulled a face and dropped her coat onto John's chair, throwing herself down into his.

'I thought not,' he concluded. 'Just stay put, until I return. Your groceries have arrived. Maybe you could cook something.'

'Oh, does that mean we're having dinner?' she asked, brightly.

'You are,' he replied. 'I don't usually eat when I'm working but, if I do, it will be with my family, tonight.' He nodded a farewell greeting, picked up his coat and scarf and left the flat.

ooOoo


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Four**

Sherlock needed to go to New Scotland Yard, to take advantage of their Interpol access, to identify Irene's stalker. Assuming that he was Scandinavian, it was more likely he would be known to Interpol than the Met. Carrying his laptop around everywhere was a bit of a nuisance but he did not want to leave it in the flat with her. He didn't trust her. For all he knew, she could be downloading all the files on his hard drive, the moment his back was turned. As he stepped out onto the pavement, he saw a face he recognised, standing just beyond the café frontage, rattling a polystyrene cup at passers-by and requesting spare change. He walked in that direction and dropped a couple of folded twenties into the cup as he passed. The Network were upholding their side of the deal well, so he was more than happy to do likewise.

Letting himself into the room he used, just off the Black Museum, he nodded a greeting to PC Pearce, the veteran officer who administered the museum. They didn't work together but they shared space and Pearce was a big fan of John's blog so he was quite accommodating, whenever Sherlock asked for a favour of any kind. He needed one today. When he was working on his own private cases, he wasn't supposed to use the Met's resources but Pearce was not above turning a blind eye, every now and then, so long as Sherlock didn't abuse the service too often.

Having removed his coat and scarf and placed his laptop, on the desk, he picked up a dirty mug and walked back into the main room of the museum. Pearce was at his own desk, tapping away at a pc.

'I'm just making a coffee. Would you like one?' Sherlock asked. The PC looked up and gave a cheerful grin.

'Don't mind if I do, gov'nor' he replied, 'but, 'ere, let me get 'em.' He stood up, took the dirty mug from Sherlock and disappeared into the little kitchenette, in the corner. Sherlock followed him and leaned, casually, on the door frame of the tiny facility. PC Pearce just about filled all the available space not already occupied by a stainless steel sink unit and a small worktop that sported an ancient microwave oven and an electric kettle. Under the worktop was a similarly superannuated fridge, from which the big bobby took a carton of semi-skimmed milk, his one concession to the low cholesterol diet recommended by the occupational health doctor who had assigned PC Pearce to a desk job, for health reasons.

'What you up to today then?' Pearce enquired, just making conversation.

'Oh, Missing Person. I have a recent sighting, in Switzerland, so I need to check with Interpol, see if anyone has any more up to date information about the subject. Don't suppose I could have a quick gander on your terminal, could I? Won't take me two minutes and it would take longer to fill out all the forms, if I had to apply for myself.'

'Nah, you go 'n' 'elp y'self. I'll make m'self scarce for ten minutes. What the eye don't see, eh?' the PC replied, tapping the side of his nose, conspiratorially, with one finger.

Sherlock gave the man an equally conspiratorial wink, accepted the cup of coffee that his partner in crime handed to him and crossed back to his own little office, where he picked up his laptop and brought it over to the PC's desk. With a few deft strokes of the key pad, he sent the screen grab as an attachment, to PC Pearce's email account, then, transferring to the terminal, he accessed the Interpol website and downloaded the image into their match finder facility. Now, he just had to wait. He sat back in the chair and sipped his coffee. His phone rang and he fished it out of his pocket, checked the caller ID and answered the call.

'Hello, John.'

'Sherlock, how's it going?'

'That would very much depend on the identity of 'it',' Sherlock replied, sardonically.

'Ok, Smartarse, I'll rephrase the question. How is the case going?'

'I'm just running the mystery man's image through the Interpol database; hoping for an ID, any minute.'

'Did you talk to Molly, last night?'

'I talk to her every night - and every morning, too.'

'Oh, we are sharp today. Mind you don't cut yourself,' John muttered, with a long-suffering sigh. 'Did you tell Molly about The Woman?' he asked, stressing each syllable, as though speaking to an annoying child.

'Yes, John, I did. I told her all about Karachi, alright?'

'How did she take it?'

'Molly called you, didn't she?'

John snorted, as he almost choked on his lunch break beverage. Sherlock held the phone away from his ear until his friend's coughing fit subsided.

'You should never ask me a question to which you already know the answer, John. I can hear it in your inflection. I assume Molly asked you to check up on me, make sure I'm OK?'

John didn't bother to either deny or confirm that statement.

'So are you?'

'Hmmm. That's disappointing.'

'What? What is? Sherlock, are you alright?'

'John, your concern for my wellbeing is admirable but I can't sit here exchanging pleasantries all day. I have a stalker to find. If I have any leads to follow, I'll let you know.'

He disconnected without waiting for a reply and stared at the monitor screen. No matches. So, whoever the mystery man was, he wasn't a known felon in Europe. Oh, well, it was a bit of a long shot. There was only one other course of action available. He would have to run the image through the facial recognition software that he could access via Mycroft's department.

He had resisted using that facility in recent months. Since he and Mycroft had been enjoying a more cordial relationship, he had been loath to risk annoying him by hacking into his resources but desperate times called for desperate measures and it was fairly imperative that he get Irene out of his life as quickly as possible. If that meant chancing Mycroft's wrath, it was a gamble he just had to take. He disconnected from the Interpol site and deleted the history of his inquiry. He knew it would not be completely inaccessible but someone would need to be looking really hard to find it. Taking up his laptop, he retreated to his own little room, where he stood at the window and sipped his rapidly cooling coffee, reviewing the data he had collected so far.

He really only had Irene's word for it that this man was stalking her at all. OK, so he had shown up outside the hotel in Lausanne but who was to say why he was there? She could have arranged to meet him, lured him there for her own purpose. And what about those other locations she had mentioned? Had he even been there? Had she even been there?

He had accepted her version of events without question but perhaps that had been an error. He had been distracted by the sensory overload her presence had wrought in him. She had called directly to his hind-brain, by-passing his fore-brain completely. Only now, when he reviewed the information she had provided, did the holes in her story show up. She was more than capable of deception and, even though he had saved her life and secured her future, he knew that would not put her beyond trying to exploit him for her own ends.

He needed to look at the CCTV footage from those other locations, too, to prove to his own satisfaction, at least, that she was telling the truth, and in order to do that, he needed to go back to Baker Street. He couldn't hack his way into Mycroft's networks from Scotland Yard. That would be far too traceable. And he needed her to tell him what time of day she had visited those places. Sherlock went back to his desk, put on his coat and scarf, picked up his laptop and exited the Black Museum.

ooOoo

After just twenty four hours incarcerated in 221B Baker Street, Irene was feeling bored and restless. Watching television was not her idea of fun and she was sorely tempted to take a little stroll outside but she knew that would be immediately reported back to Sherlock, either by the on-duty homeless person, loitering in the street or by the septuagenarian Rottweiler known as Mrs Hudson.

That particular lady had made her presence felt on numerous occasions, finding any excuse to come upstairs – cleaning out the fridge, vacuuming the rug, dusting the book shelves, changing the bed linen. Who did she think she was kidding? It was painfully obvious that she was, in fact, keeping an eye on 'the guest'. And all the time she was carrying out these tasks, she prattled on about Sherlock's little family – the lovely Molly, darling William and sweet baby Freddie.

Irene was appalled. It was such a terrible waste of a good man, to get bogged down in all this domesticity. How could he possibly be content with his new life? The Sherlock Holmes that she knew – the one who had snatched her from the very jaws of death – would never have been satisfied with this pale imitation of his former life. Surely he was secretly desperate to be rescued from the mind-numbing drudgery of the life he now lived? What on earth had happened to him, in the intervening years, to reduce him to this? It was like watching a wild stallion being gelded and harnessed to a brewer's dray. Perhaps he just needed to be reminded of what it was like to live life on the edge. If that were the case, she was his go-to woman.

Irene knew he was not impervious to her charms. One would need to be comatose not to notice the heightened colour in his pale cheeks, the visible pulse in his throat and the instant dilation of his pupils every time she came into his presence. She would give this Molly credit for one thing. She had clearly broken down his carefully constructed barriers but that was working to his disadvantage now. When the defences came down, it had left him vulnerable to attack and she not only had the right weapons for the job, she also knew exactly how to use them. Irene was never one to resist a challenge and Sherlock Holmes was a conquest she prized above all others.

The last time they lay together, she felt he'd had the upper hand. In the weeks and months after the rescue, she had given a lot of thought as to why he had even bothered to save her, given the circumstances of their previous meeting. But the penny had finally dropped. It was the nick name that had rankled. Moriarty had called him 'The Virgin'. He had to prove that Moriarty had been wrong. So, that's what it had all boiled down to – his wounded male pride. And she had been his means of verification. He had used her! Well, that balance needed to be redressed. It wasn't her main reason for coming here but it had made the whole enterprise that bit more attractive. She had even been looking forward to it. She was not about to leave disappointed.

But the damn guard dog was always on the alert. God, didn't that woman ever sleep?

ooOoo


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**SAMFA 2013 nominations are open. If any of you think my stories are worth putting forward, I'd be grateful for the vote of confidence. Go to wwwDOTsherlollyDOTcomSLASHsamfas to see how it's done.**

**Thanks again to all my faithful readers, those who have followed and favourited, and especially those who have reviewed. Your comments are always encouraging and greatly appreciated.**

**Chapter Six**

When Sherlock walked back into the sitting room at 221B, Irene was acutely aware of a subtle change in his demeanour. He seemed a little hardened toward her, a little cold. She experienced a frisson of fear. Had he discovered something that made him question her story? That could be disastrous. There was so much at stake.

'You're back early. Have you found him, the man?' she asked, with a forced brightness.

'Perhaps. I want to check out some of the other sightings.'

'Oh, really? OK, if you think it's necessary.' So, he was doubting her version of events. She uncurled from the chair and gave him an expectant look.

He shrugged out of his coat and threw it, along with his scarf, on the sofa, then opened his laptop, on the desk, and sat in the chair. She came and stood at his shoulder.

'What was the date of the first sighting?' he asked, his speech clipped, unnerved by her closeness to him. She told him the date and time. He tapped on the keypad and, eventually, came up with an image from the CCTV in the Agora, in Athens. Unlike London, Athens had very few CCTV cameras in public places but there was one near the entrance to the ancient market place. He fast forwarded the image, watching the numbers on the digital clock flicker through until they reached the required time. He pressed play and they both watched the grainy image on the screen. The camera was facing head-on into the flow of tourists, moving into the historic site. After several minutes, Irene put her hand on his shoulder and reached her other hand to point at a figure. He paused the film and looked at Irene's image, frozen on the screen. He gave a brief nod, then advanced the film still further. He spotted the man first and paused the film again, pointing at the image.

'Yes, that's him. I hadn't seen him then. I noticed him later and then I saw him everywhere I went, that day.' Her hand was still on his shoulder and her scent was in his nostrils. He felt her breath on his cheek, as she spoke.

'What's the next date and time?' he asked. She gave him the information, succinctly.

He leant forward to tap at the keys again and she stood upright, moving her hand to the back of his chair. His shoulder felt naked, light. The image changed to the aspect of the Angevin fortress, on a hilltop, looking down on Naples. Once again, there were no CCTV cameras in the narrow, medieval streets but just one, above the Hapsburg eagle, that adorned the entrance gate. It gave a high angle down onto the approaching visitors but Sherlock recognised the man as he passed underneath and pointed him out.

'Yes, that's him,' she confirmed, moving behind his chair and putting both hands on his shoulders. 'And there am I, just walking in, now.'

'You're behind him. You're following him.'

'He must have passed me on the approach. I didn't spot him until I was inside, or I would have turned around and walked away.'

Sherlock just nodded and clicked the keys again. The next venue, the cathedral, in Cagliari, Sardinia, was better served with CCTV cameras. Sherlock was able to call up several views. He fed in the date and time she provided and flicked through the multiple images of the various cameras. He spotted several shots of both Irene and the strange man. It was immediately obvious that there was a pattern in the movements of the two people around the cathedral's interior. Tracking from one camera to the next, she would pass through and then, moments later, he would appear and pass through, also. Her close proximity, behind Sherlock's chair, was distracting but, he rationalised, she needed to be there in order to see the screen. He tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore her presence.

The final location, Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, in Barcelona, was similarly well provided with CCTV coverage. Every room could be viewed from several angles, via the in-house network, which he accessed by hacking into the museum's own system. She provided the date and time again and he quickly identified both targets – him and her. This time, the pattern was even clearer. The rooms could be viewed in a random order but he never deviated from her route. Where she went, he followed. Having watched the images in silence for several minutes he reached forward and clicked on the tab, closing the connection. He steepled his fingers and stared at the wallpaper on his screen.

She moved away from him and sat in John's chair, crossing her knees and folding her arms. He rose from his seat, walked over to the window then turned to look at her. She looked down at the floor, exhaled slowly and looked up, into his cool gaze.

'I wondered how long it would take,' she almost whispered. 'You didn't believe my story. You thought this was some sort of trick. You thought I was up to something. So, do you believe me, now?' she asked.

He furrowed his brow and gave a small dip to his head but still said nothing. She held his gaze for a few more moments and then, reaching a decision, shook herself and stood up, briskly.

'Fine. OK, well, thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate you letting me stay here for the last day or two. I won't pretend it hasn't been stressful, being chased half way across Europe by this man, and being able to relax for the first time in weeks has been a welcome respite but I can see I've outstayed my welcome, so I won't trouble you any more.' She turned and walked toward the bedroom, leaving him standing in the sitting room.

She strode across the landing and into his bedroom – her bedroom, for the past twenty four hours. Her luggage was on top of the chest of drawers. She flung the case open and began to walk around the room, gathering up her belongings and flinging them into it. As she turned to go into the en suite bathroom, he was standing, just inside the bedroom doorway. She stopped short and looked at him, with a strained expression.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

'I'm leaving. Isn't it obvious?'

'Let me rephrase the question, then. Why are you leaving? I agreed to help you and I will. I just needed more information to identify this man.'

'Sherlock, please do not patronise me. You always were a terrible liar. You didn't believe my story any more. You were trying to find something that called my story into question and confirm your suspicions that I was lying all along. Well, I may be desperate but I do still have my pride. So, I'll go back to being dead and you can go back to being - whatever you are, now. I'm sorry to have troubled you.' Her voice cracked at the end of the sentence and she pushed past him, into the bathroom and shut the door. She leaned on the basin and gave way to the tears that had been threatening to erupt for the last few minutes.

She heard a noise behind her and, looking up into the mirror, she saw him, standing behind her, in the small, shower room. Their gazes met, in their reflections.

'You're right, I did doubt your story. I'm sorry,' he muttered, disturbed more than he cared to admit by the sight of this strong, independent woman, weeping. She turned and stepped toward him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and placing her hands on his chest, sobbing into his lapel. He splayed his hands across her back and lowered his cheek to the top of her head, rocking, almost imperceptibly, and making quiet shushing sounds.

ooOoo

Sherlock handed Irene a mug of tea and then sat in the chair opposite, with his own mug of steaming liquid. She thanked him, in a small, self-conscious voice.

'I'm sorry about that. I don't know what came over me.'

He gave a small shrug. 'We all have our moments,' he remarked.

'So, what happens now?' she asked, in her more usual, brusque manner.

'We still need to identify him. Until we have a name, there's little we can do. But I need to access a specialised kind of software, which means risking my brother's wrath. I could ask his permission, but he would want to know what I'm working on, so that is out of the question. And right now,' he extended his left arm and looked at his watch, 'I need to go home.'

She gave him a curious look.

'I keep strict office hours, these days,' he explained, with a small smile. 'With two young children at home, it's all hands on deck, morning and evening.'

'You will never stop surprising me, Sherlock. I never would have imagined saying this, but you seem very happy in your new life. It really seems to suit you. I think I might even be a little envious.'

'But, the Witness Protection programme? Couldn't you find someone with whom to share your life?' he asked, feeling genuinely perplexed at her decision to abandon all that security.

'Too many lies, too many secrets,' she replied, wistfully. 'To make a new life with one person, it requires so much effort. You have to be constantly on your guard. It's like being an actor, in a play, but for twenty four hours every day. It's easier to stay single.'

He knew all too well that what she said was true. He had lived that life for three years. He was so glad not to have to live it any more. He felt a deep sorrow for her – and then realised what he was doing. He was feeling. He stood up.

'I'll be back tomorrow and we'll see if we can find this man, find out what he wants; get him out of your life.'

She rose from her chair and approached him, put her hands on his shoulders and reached up to give him a chaste peck on the cheek. He didn't resist but inclined his head accept her kiss. She stepped back and he crossed the room, put on his coat and scarf and picked up his laptop. He gave a curt nod and left the flat.

She stood at the window and watched him hail a cab. One pulled over, he climbed in and was gone. She picked up her hand bag, took out her mobile phone and pressed a speed dial number.

'Hello? Problem?' the other party asked.

'Almost,' she replied. 'He was beginning to doubt my story but, fortunately, the CCTV footage convinced him. Well done for getting to that. I was worried when I saw the shots from Sant'Elmo but the cathedral and the museum were fine.'

'We have our Europe team to thank for that. So, back on track, then?'

'I think so. I'm hoping we'll have a location by end of play tomorrow. He's going to hack his brother's technology.'

'And do you have your exit strategy in hand?'

'I most certainly do.'

'See you some time tomorrow, then.'

'Indeed,' she replied and broke the connection.

ooOoo


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seven**

It was only four thirty when Sherlock left 221B, quite early for him to be quitting for the day, but he needed to get away from Irene. She confused him. He couldn't think straight around her. He still felt she was not being completely honest with him but the stalking story seemed to pan out. He felt a great deal of empathy with her situation. He had been there and it was not a nice place to be. He wondered what she would do, where she would go, when the stalker situation had been resolved. She was a grown woman. She would make her own decisions. But, no matter what happened, she would still always be a victim of circumstance to him. He felt a great need to have the comfort, security and normality of his family around him. Irene's situation reminded him of everything that had been wrong about his old life. There but for the grace of Molly, he thought, as the cab pulled up outside St Bart's.

He paid the fare and jumped out, striding in through the main entrance and making his way through the building to the Pathology Department. When he walked through the heavy double fire doors, into Molly's lab, she looked up to see who it was and was surprised and pleased to see him. She greeted him with a warm smile. He crossed the floor in a few swift strides and caught her up in his arms, almost lifting her off the floor, in his eagerness for the embrace.

'Wow, what did I do to deserve that?' she asked, breathlessly, when he finally released her from the bear hug.

'I finished early so I thought I'd come and meet you, walk you home,' he explained – which was half true. He pottered around in the lab, peering at various pieces of equipment and wondering whether he could fit one in the kitchen of 221B, while Molly finished the report she was writing and tidied her desk. At just after five, she pulled on her coat and picked up her bag. As they left the lab, he took her hand. He was not given to public displays of affection and, so far a she could recall, they had never walked hand in hand before. She gave him an enquiring look but he didn't even notice. He was deep in thought, with a slight puckering between his eyes. Something was troubling him but he would tell her when he was ready.

As they approached the security gate to the hospital crèche, Molly gave a little giggle.

'The staff will think it's their birthday, with you picking Freddie up,' she teased. He gave her a withering look then set his face to bland, as the receptionist buzzed them in through the security door, into the nursery building. They walked along to the Baby Room, which was called Starfish, for some indecipherable reason, and Sherlock held the door open for Molly to walk through. The room was bright and colourful, with mobiles dangling from the ceiling and a large padded mat, in the middle of the floor, on which four babies of varying ages, between six and twelve months of age, where sitting, lying or crawling. One of the Nursery Nurses was sitting on the mat, with the babies, engaging them with the toys that were scattered amongst them. She looked up when she heard the door open and saw Molly enter. She was about to call the other staff member to come and deal with Freddie's mum when she saw Sherlock walk in, too, and the words froze on her lips. She scrambled to her feet, saying,

'Oh, Freddie, look, Daddy's here! And Mummy, too, of course.' She blushed a deep crimson and muttered something before disappearing into the cloakroom area. Molly turned and grinned at Sherlock, who just scowled and then swooped down to pick up a chortling Freddie off the mat and toss him in the air, then catch him, to squeals of delight from the little dumpling of a child. Freddie was in that phase of development just before walking, when he looked like a little Buddha, all fat and creases, with a little round face that was permanently smiling. The girl returned with Freddie's coat and bag and gave them to Molly, too embarrassed to approach Sherlock. Molly handed the coat to Sherlock, who sat on one of the low tables, with Freddie on his knee, to put the coat on, while Molly received the daily report. Apparently, Freddie had been standing without support quite a lot, that day, and would, no doubt, be walking before they knew it. Molly thanked her for the update and the Hooper-Holmes family departed.

Sherlock still had an aversion to pushing the buggy, so he carried Freddie and Molly pushed the empty buggy as they walked home. Freddie had recently developed a penchant for pointing and uttering the generic term, 'Whah?' So, all the way home he pointed at various features in the environment and asked,

'Whah?' and Sherlock provided a detailed explanation of what 'whah' was. This included a hole-in-the-wall cash machine, a dispenser for the free evening newspaper, a homeless person, curled up in the doorway of an empty shop, and a set of traffic lights. Freddie had eclectic tastes.

Molly, as the observer, delighted in the intimacy of these exchanges. The due respect and consideration Sherlock gave to each and every one of Freddie's enquiries was both touching and amusing in equal measure, even to the point of demonstrating how to put his card in the cash machine and tap the keys to obtain money and then giving said money to the homeless person. Molly thought she may, at some point, have to explain to the little boy that it was not compulsory to do this neither at every cash machine nor even to every homeless person. They stood and watched the lights change and the traffic stop and start, through three cycles, at the busy intersection, and Sherlock held the lid of the newspaper dispenser while Freddie removed a paper – which he subsequently began to gnaw, at which point, Sherlock showed him the purpose of a litter bin.

As a result of all these diversions, the ten minute journey home took closer to thirty but they eventually made it to the front door. Molly took Freddie into the sitting room, whilst Sherlock stowed the buggy in the hall cupboard. William was watching late afternoon TV, as usual, but broke off to greet his parents and little brother. Marie was just finishing preparing the vegetables for their evening meal. She brought Molly up to speed on William's day at school then said goodbye and departed, leaving the Hooper-Holmes's to themselves for the evening. Sherlock sat on the sofa, next to William, with Freddie in his lap, watching the Nature show about deadly animals. Today, it was the very unlikely male platypus, with venomous spurs on its back legs. When the programme finished, William went off to his room to play with his Lego and Sherlock put Freddie on the floor, to have a crawl around, with a selection of toys to amuse him, and went into the kitchen to help out with supper.

'How's your lodger?' Molly asked, casually.

'I'm not sure. I think she's keeping something from me but I can't work out what it is. She became quite upset when she thought I doubted her story. It's difficult. When she's there, I find myself believing everything she tells me but the minute I'm away from her, I start to question what she's said. Does that make any sense?'

Molly looked at him, with a knowing expression.

'You don't trust her, do you?' Sherlock observed.

'I've never met the woman, not the real one, at least, but I think she's very devious. And, no, I wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw her, which I suspect is not that far. I think she's very manipulative and I think she knows exactly how to push your buttons. John doesn't like her, does he?'

'No, he's never liked her. Oh, and thanks for asking him to check up on me, by the way.'

Molly looked a little caught in the act but reached over and squeezed his hand.

'Sorry about that but I was worried about you and he is your best friend.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes but leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

'Where would I be without my support group? Anyway, I'm going to hack into Mycroft's system tomorrow and try to ID this man. Once we know who he is we might be able to find out where he is and then John and I can pay him a visit and find out what he is about.'

'And what then?' Molly asked, pretending she hadn't heard the comment about hacking.

'Well, that is a very good question. It really depends on why he is interested in her. If she's been up to her old tricks, he could be out for her blood.'

'And what exactly are her old tricks?' Molly asked.

'She used to work in the sex industry. She took some compromising photographs of a very high profile person and Mycroft asked me to retrieve them. That's how we met. But the photos weren't the only thing she had.'

His eyes clouded over and his eyebrows puckered. The next part was quite painful to relate. It didn't show him in a very good light but then Molly had seen him at his lowest of ebbs so he had no reason to hide anything from her.

'She had a fragment of an email on her phone which was connected to a top secret Anglo-American counter-terrorist operation. She asked me to decode it. It wasn't a code. I identified it as an aircraft seating plan and she passed that on to Moriarty who then advised the terrorists that they'd been rumbled. It blew the whole operation. Not my finest hour. Mycroft was not pleased and neither was the CIA.'

'She mixes with some questionable people. Moriarty? Was she part of his network?'

'No, she was a freelance who went to him for advice – yes, I know, not a great character reference. Anyway, I worked out the code to open her phone, which had a lot of highly sensitive information on it which Mycroft's people and the Yanks were able to put to very good use. But, as a result, she was on a number of rather nasty people's hit lists, not the least being Moriarty himself. That's how she came to be condemned to death by a terror group in Pakistan. You know the rest.'

He looked very uncomfortable at that point. So much so that she crossed the kitchen and gave him a tight squeeze.

'You don't have to feel guilty about that, remember? We were not together.'

He put his finger tips under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his, in a melting kiss.

'More fool me,' he murmured.

ooOoo

After supper, Molly was on bathing duty and it was Sherlock's turn to load the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen. Then he took over story time for William while Molly fed Freddie and put him to bed. With both children tucked up for the night, Molly and Sherlock regrouped, on the sofa, round a pot of tea and resumed their conversation about Irene.

'So, if she has made herself unpopular with some bad people, where does that leave you and John? You could be walking into a very dangerous situation.'

'We'll make a decision about how to proceed when we find out who he is. If he's somebody very bad, we might need to find a way to help her disappear but the new life in America won't be an option, again. She burned that bridge.'

'Can't you ask Mycroft for help?'

Sherlock gave a rueful smile and shook his head.

'Mycroft thinks she's dead. He was informed by the American Diplomatic Corps that she was executed. He doesn't know I rescued her. He would be most put out if he knew she was still alive, even more so if he knew I was responsible for that.'

'I can't help but think he has a point. She likes to sail close to the wind, this woman of yours. How does Mrs Hudson feel about her living in her house?'

'She's not too happy, mostly because she thinks I may be in danger of being led astray. She walked in on us, once, back then, and misinterpreted what she saw. She called my client 'the wrong sort' and was worried you might suspect I was keeping a mistress.'

'Ah, Mrs Hudson is a very shrewd lady. You would never get away with that, under her roof,' Molly declared, giving him a very pointed look.

Sherlock reached across and pulled her on top of him.

'Why would I need a mistress when I've got you?' he purred into her neck.

'Hey, I thought sex was off the menu when you were on a case?'

'It's not a very difficult case. I think I can afford to take a night off.' He ran one hand up her back, under her blouse, combed the fingers of his free hand into her hair and pressed his lips and tongue to the skin under her jaw, tasting the slight tang of perspiration.

'So why did you bring your lap top home?' she asked.

He heaved a dramatic sigh and released his hold on her.

'Oh, don't you want me to take a night off, then? Would you rather I was working? Maybe I'll go and see my mistress, in 221B.'

'Over her dead body,' Molly hissed and stopped his mouth with her own. When they both came up for air, she gasped,

'Shouldn't we move this activity to the bedroom? I would hate for William to catch us 'in flagrante delicto', especially since you got him that book. He will know exactly what we're doing.'

'He'll know what we're doing if he catches us in the bedroom,' Sherlock countered, brushing his lips along her jaw line.

'Yes, but it just seems more proper in the bedroom.'

'We could be improper in the bedroom,' he suggested, nibbling her ear.

'If you like,' she giggled.

He sat, abruptly, and, scooping her up in his arms, carried her off to the bedroom and, sitting on the bed, tipped over backwards, taking her with him.

'Oh, girls on top?' she squeaked, trying to keep the noise down.

'My favourite position,' he growled, in her ear, and pressed his lips to hers.

ooOoo


	9. Chapter 8

**This chapter is the reason why this story is rated M for Mature. It refers to a serious sexual assault. Please be warned.**

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eight**

Molly was the first one up, as usual, next morning. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door of the en suite, picking up discarded items of clothing, as she went, and tossing them onto the bedroom chair. She smiled to herself, remembering last night's 'improper' activities. She could not conceive of a time when she and Sherlock would ever tire of one another's bodies. Making love was as necessary as breathing, an affirmation of their total commitment to one another.

They may not be 'married' in the legal or religious sense of the word but they had made a home, a life and two children together, which, in her opinion, was as big a commitment as one person could make to another. A formal ceremony and a legal document did not guarantee life-long commitment. That came from the heart. Sherlock had referred to her, on more than one occasion, as his wife so, in his mind and in his heart, they were married. That was enough for her. It was still a sore point with her mother, that she did not have a ring on her finger or wedding photos in an album, but a wedding was just one day. A marriage, on the other hand, was for a lifetime. What they had was for a lifetime – a rose by any other name.

By the time she came out of the shower, Sherlock was in the family bathroom, getting William ready for school. She could hear Freddie babbling in his bedroom, amusing himself with a wide variety of vocal sounds that would, eventually, become speech but were, for now, just vocal exercises. He was such a sunny baby. He always woke up happy. But then, William had been a sunny baby, too. She wondered what sort of baby Sherlock had been and suspected he had been sad. The few storied that Mycroft had told her about their childhood, whilst Sherlock was away, had been of a grumpy nanny who did an efficient job of keeping them clean and well fed, even entertained, but who lacked any kind of warmth or affection. Children needed to be loved – physically, emotionally, and unconditionally. How could anyone not know that?

Having dried and dressed, she went next door, to Freddie's room, and was greeted by a huge, toothy grin. He was standing up in his cot, holding on to the side bars and he bounced on his knees, with delight, as she approached him, holding up his arms as she reached down to pick him up. Scooping him out of the cot, she carried him over to the bedroom chair, where she sat to give him his morning feed. She wasn't producing much milk now and she knew it would probably dry up completely in another month, so she was making the most of the time she had left. When William stopped suckling, she had cried. She knew she would feel the same about Freddie. But she was aware that the length of time he fed was getting shorter and shorter. It wouldn't be long now before he wouldn't bother at all. Still, she would leave that decision to her baby. She looked down into his liquid eyes and smiled at the total trust she saw there.

When Freddie had finished his morning feed, she popped him on the changing table and got him ready for the day ahead then carried him into the kitchen, where William was eating his breakfast cereal and having a deep and meaningful conversation with Sherlock about the International Space Station. William was nearly five, now, and so grown up, it was hard to imagine him ever being as small as Freddie. His interest in all things scientific was his defining feature, along with his ability to notice the smallest of details and recognise their significance. He and Sherlock still went off on Saturdays to the Science Museum or the Natural History Museum or, sometimes, to the Wellcome Collection, which was always such a fascinating combination of science and art. This Saturday was a zoo day, so she and Freddie would come, too, but their youngest son's tastes in animals was the furry, cuddly variety rather than the invertebrates that William favoured, so they would go their separate ways and just meet up for snacks and home time.

Sherlock fed Freddie his cereal while Molly had her toast and tea, then it was time for her to go to work, dropping Freddie at the crèche, en route. She gave William a hug and a kiss and reminded him to take his violin, as it was a lesson day, then turned to Sherlock.

'Just watch out for that woman, will you? If you think she's hiding something, she probably is. Trust your instincts,' she advised him. He promised he would be on his guard and she went out of the door, with the sensation of his kiss still on her lips.

ooOoo

Sherlock dropped William and his violin at school and then returned to the flat to get showered and changed for his working day. He was in no great hurry to arrive at Baker Street. Irene was not an early riser and John was working the day shift, so he had plenty of time to hack Mycroft's FaxRex software and search for a match for the mystery man. So he took a leisurely shower, shaved, and dressed in his shirt and suit. He could have hacked from home but he preferred to use his Baker Street Wi-Fi. He didn't want Molly to be incriminated by association, if there were ever any repercussions from his illicit activities. Consequently, by the time the cab dropped him outside No. 221, it was ten a.m.

Instead of taking the stairs, he walked down the hall-way and tapped on Mrs Hudson's door. She answered his knock, a few moments later. They exchanged greetings and she asked him if he wanted to come in for a cuppa. He declined, politely,

'No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. Anything to report about the lady upstairs?'

'No, dear, she hasn't had any visitors and she hasn't been out. She watched TV until quite late last night and went to bed around one o'clock this morning. I haven't heard a peep out of her so far today.'

'Where would I be without your vigilance, Mrs H?'

She smiled, charmed, as ever, by his appreciation.

'Now, I have to go out today,' she explained. 'Mrs Turner and I are going out to lunch and then to the cinema so I will be gone from about midday until five-ish. It's a regular thing we do, once a month, so I can't really cancel.'

'Oh, Mrs Hudson, that is quite unnecessary. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself, really,' Sherlock assured her. 'You go and enjoy yourself. I'll be fine.'

'Yes, well, you just watch out for that lady – and I use the term very loosely. My woman's intuition is flashing red and…well, it's never let me down yet.'

He thanked her again for her advice and made his way up the stairs to 221B, musing on the commonality of sentiment expressed by the two most important women in his life for his client.

On reaching the landing, there was no evidence that Irene was up and about that morning. The bedroom door was still firmly closed. He proceeded into the sitting room, took off his coat and scarf and hung them behind the door. Putting his laptop on the desk, he opened it and logged on. He navigated a circuitous route, through various servers, until he accessed the sub-network that Mycroft's department used to house its facial recognition software. He submitted the image of Irene's stalker, obtained from the CCTV camera in Lausanne, and set the application to its task.

From across the landing, and through the wall, he heard the shower go on in the en suite shower room, off his bedroom. Irene was up at last.

Leaving the FaxRex process in progress, he went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. There was no way of knowing how long it would take to find a match or even if one would be found but, if it weren't, he was not sure where next to take this enquiry. He took a clean mug from the draining board, dropped in a teabag and poured the hot water over. Leaving the teabag to steep, he opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk, even as his laptop gave a light trill, signalling that a match had been found. He put down the milk carton and crossed to the desk, slipping gracefully into the straight-backed wooden chair. The consulting detective pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow as he gazed intently at the information on the screen. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting but this was definitely not it.

The screen displayed a Wikipedia entry for one Patrick Stoeckler. The man in question was described by his Wiki file as an 'activist, journalist and publisher'. He was listed as South African, by birth, but resident in the UK, since the age of thirteen. He had first come to the attention of the authorities when, as a teenaged cyber-geek, he had been arrested and charged with hacking into the computer system of a large multinational company and leaking details of contracts to sell arms to unstable regimes in Africa and the Middle East. When the case came to court, the file went on to say, the jury found him guilty but the judge declared he was motivated more by youthful curiosity than malicious intent and gave him a community service order, which he duly served. He then went on to university, where he studied computer sciences, and had since been linked with a number of high-profile instances of corporate whistle-blowing. He was known to have affiliations with freedom of information pressure groups.

Having read the man's Wiki profile, Sherlock sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, whilst he processed the information. Patrick Stoeckler seemed like a man on a mission against censorship and dirty dealings in the corridors of power. So what was his interest in Louisa Bennett, copy editor from Philadelphia? Was there a publishing connection? He needed to speak to Mr Stoeckler, find out exactly what his interest was in Irene's alter ego.

Mr Stoeckler had a police record so he must have a Met file, which would list a last known address. Maybe PC Pearce would help him out again. He rattled off an email to his tame bobby. There might be a long wait so he walked over to the kitchen to finish making his tea. He was just returning with his mug when the reply email showed up on his account. He opened it and read the text. Finsbury Park. It wasn't a recent address so it might no longer be relevant. People move around a lot in London. But, if it was all he had, it was a good place to start. He needed John's help with that part of the investigation. Taking out his phone from his jacket pocket, he dialled his friend's number. The doctor took a few rings to pick up – a busy day at St Mary's.

'I've just ID'd our stalker,' the detective declared. 'When are you free?'

'Five o'clock. Do you want me to come over?'

'Yes, that would be most helpful.'

Sherlock shut off the call, leaving John replying to a dead line,

'OK, see you about five thirty.'

It was only eleven a.m. so there was a good deal of time to kill. What other options were open to him, to use the time profitably? A thought occurred to him. Whilst he still had Mycroft's technology to hand, he may as well get his money's worth. He tapped the keys again, to log on to the CCTV street surveillance network. If Mr Stoeckler was in London, right now, he would not be able to avoid being picked up by a camera somewhere. He fed in the image again and sat back, waiting. It took less than five minutes to register a number of sightings. He instructed the programme to plot them on a location map and the pattern was immediately obvious and significant. They all centred on Ion Square Garden, in Hoxton, North London.

Picking up his laptop, he walked across the landing, tapped on the bedroom door and walked in. Irene was sitting in the easy chair, by the window, wearing his dressing gown and applying her makeup, using a small hand mirror.

'Oh, do come in,' she muttered, indignantly.

'What does the name Patrick Stoeckler mean to you?' he asked, ignoring or possibly oblivious to her indignation at his sudden invasion of her privacy.

A deep crease appeared between her eyebrows as she made a show of running the name through her memory banks but coming up blank.

'Nothing what so ever,' she replied, shrugging her shoulders and going back to her makeup application.

'Well, he's your stalker,' he advised her. 'And he appears to spend most of his time in Hoxton.'

Her face lit up.

'Really? Are you sure?'

'Yes. I plotted him, using street surveillance cameras. Look.' He held out the laptop toward her. She gazed at the location map, her eyes shining and a broad smile spreading across her face.

'Oh, you clever boy,' she breathed, standing up and turning toward him. He drew in a quick breath and pulled his head back to look at her but, at that precise moment, she stepped toward him, moved her left hand up to the back of his neck and stretched up, capturing his lips in hers. For a long moment, he did not react, neither reciprocating the kiss nor pulling away. Then, very slowly, he reached up with his right hand and, firmly, pushed her away. She stepped back and looked up into his eyes. He didn't look away but his gaze was expressionless. She looked down at the floor and sighed.

'I'm sorry if that was inappropriate. I just wanted to say thank you.'

'The words alone would have sufficed, Irene,' he replied, with a cool stare, snapping his laptop closed and turning to walk out the bedroom.

As he turned away, her right hand dipped into the pocket of his dressing gown, and, she lunged towards him. That hand came up, curled into a fist, and thumped down onto his right trapezoid muscle. He felt the physical shock of the sudden blow, a sharp stab in his flesh and the cold sensation of something spreading through the muscle tissue. In shock, he turned back towards her, as the singular thought, 'Not again!' broke like a star-burst in his mind. Already, he could feel the physical weakness spreading through his body. The laptop was slipping from his hands, his head was beginning to spin, his vision to strobe. She was pushing him, manoeuvring him toward the bed. He lurched for the door but was already off balance and he felt himself toppling, as the backs of his knees made contact with the mattress. Gravity pulled him backwards and he crashed onto the bed, where he lay, like a beached whale, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to even make a sound.

'Oh, Mr Holmes,' she chided, as she walked through his field of vision, taking a mobile phone from the bedside cabinet. 'Fool you once, shame on me. Fool you twice, shame on you.' She pressed a speed dial number. The other party answered.

'Hoxton, Major Collins. Somewhere around Ion Square Garden.'

Major Collins. He knew that name. How did he know that name? His thought processes were slow but still functioning. An image came into his head of a tall, broad-shouldered American in desert camouflage, grinning and giving a casual salute; one of the soldiers who had participated in Irene's rescue – the getaway vehicle driver. He had spent a lot of time with that man, planning and executing the mission. They'd been comrades in arms, for a short but intense period of time.

She was still speaking.

'Yes, my exit strategy is still viable.' Pause. 'One hour from now? No problem.' She cut the call and put the phone back on the night stand then turned to him again. Placing one knee on the bed, she reached across and stroked his cheek.

'Well, I can't pretend it hasn't been lovely to see you again, Mr Holmes, but it could have been so much more fun,' she pouted. 'I came all this way only to find you otherwise engaged. I can't tell you how disappointing that was.'

She leaned forward and brushed her lips across his, breathing gently against his cheek.

'If only you knew how often I have imagined you, helpless on a bed. This is a dream come true.'

She had him at her mercy and she would never have this opportunity again. Some temptations were impossible to resist.

'Come on, Sherlock, you know you want me,' she purred, running her hand along his jaw, down his throat and across his chest.

'You've wanted me from the moment we met.'

Her scent filled his nostrils as she traced the line of his brow with the tip of her tongue.

'Our dinner date is not over yet.'

She sat uptight and, loosening the belt of his dressing gown, she let it slip from her shoulders, exposing her naked torso.

'What we had in Karachi was the hors d'oeuvre.'

She crawled across the bed and straddled his hips.

'This is the main course.'

Her voice was soft, seductive. He watched, as though from a great distance, as she unbuttoned his shirt. He felt her fingers brush his skin, as she loosened his waist band. His sensory memory asserted its dominance and he was powerless to resist, as his treacherous body began to respond to her touch. Inside his head, he was screaming, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a low moan.

ooOoo


	10. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Nine**

It was late lunchtime and John was just thinking it might be time to grab a quick sandwich when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and was surprised to find Mycroft Holmes' name in the caller ID.

'Hello, Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Where's Sherlock?' Mycroft snapped, in an uncharacteristically urgent manner. John was taken aback and had to collect his thoughts.

'He's at Baker Street, so far as I know, why?'

'He's not answering his phone.'

'Well, you know what he's like. Sometimes he choses to ignore you.'

'Not lately, though. We've been getting on much better. Let me ask you this, then. What is his interest in a man called Patrick Shoeckler?'

'I've no idea. I've never heard him mention that name. How do you know he's interested in him?'

'Because he hacked into our sub-network to access the facial recognition software and only searched Mr Shoeckler.'

'Oh,' John responded, as the penny dropped.

'If you know something, John, you must tell me. You have no idea how much danger Sherlock could be in if he is investigating this man.'

'Oh, God, Mycroft, you are going to be so pissed off when you hear this.'

'Not nearly so pissed off as I will be if you don't tell me what you know, right now, John!' Mycroft almost bellowed down the phone.

'Oh, shit!' John spat. 'OK. He's been working for someone you and I both thought was dead but she isn't. It's…'

'Irene Adler!'

'Yes! How the hell did you know?'

'Oh, good lord, John. I've known all along she wasn't dead. And are you saying that Sherlock has been helping her to find Stoeckler?'

'Yes. She's been hiding out in 221B, while he tracks this stalker down.'

'Oh, the damn fool! Stoeckler's not a bloody stalker. The woman has been tracking him. And if she knows where he is now, Sherlock will have outlived his usefulness.'

'What? You don't think she would kill him, do you?'

'I would not put anything passed that woman.'

'I need to get over to Baker Street, right now!'

'Don't worry, John, I have a unit on their way.'

'Yes, and I'm going there, too. And if that woman has touched a hair on his fucking head…..' John snapped off the call, as he turned and ran from the A and E department, yelling,

'Sorry, family emergency!' to a colleague, as he raced by, only stopping at the staff lounge to grab his jacket from his locker, as it contained his wallet, leaving the rest of his clothes behind and hailing a cab, still dressed in his scrubs. It only took twenty minutes to reach Baker Street but they were the longest twenty minutes of his life.

As the cab pulled up outside 221, he leapt from the vehicle, stuffing a note into the cabbie's outstretched hand. The front door was closed and did not yield to his push. He fumbled for his keys, so grateful that he had Sherlock had given him back his front door key, after he returned from the dead. He mounted the stairs, two at a time, to be met on the landing by a strange man in a dark suit levelling a semi-automatic hand gun at his chest. John stumbled to a stop, holding up his hands, yelling,

'I'm John Watson. I'm his friend. Where is he?'

The man reached out and examined John's hospital ID, still dangling from his neck, then raised the barrel of the pistol to the ceiling and motioned with his head for John to proceed.

'Where is he?' John barked, again The silent man indicated the bedroom door, which stood ajar. The doctor pushed the door open and stepped through, apprehensive about what he might find inside.

The scene was remarkably calm. Sherlock was lying on the bed, rolled up in the duvet, apparently asleep. Mycroft's PA, Anthea, was standing next to the chair by the window, where she had, apparently, been sitting, until she heard John Watson coming up the stairs. She stepped forward, putting her finger to her lips. John waited for her to come closer and spoke in a hushed tone.

'What happened?'

Anthea pointed to an object on the night stand, next to the bed. It was a hypodermic. John gave her a quizzical look then mouthed the word,

'Ketamine?'

She nodded,

'We assume so, although we will need to do an analysis but it would seem the most likely.'

'Have you called an ambulance?' John asked. She shook her head.

'He wouldn't let us. He was adamant. No ambulance.'

'John?' Sherlock's voice was a croak. His eyes remained closed.

'Yes, mate, I'm here,' John sat on the edge of the bed and placed a soothing hand on his friend's forehead. His skin felt cool and a little damp but not abnormally so.

'No ambulance. No hospital.'

'Yes, OK, if you say so.'

John was looking round the room, noticing things that he hadn't seen initially, on entering the room. Sherlock's clothing was scattered on the floor. John assumed that, under the duvet, he was naked.

'Who did this?' John mouthed to Anthea. She indicated for him to step out of the room. He got up, carefully, from the bed and walked out onto the landing, behind the dark-haired PA. She crossed to the sitting room and he followed. Once in there, she turned to face him and he asked,

'What happened here?'

Anthea reached into her back pocket and took out Sherlock's mobile phone. She opened the email app and then one of the emails, handing the phone to John. He read the email.

'Something to remember me by.'

It was signed, 'The Woman who beat you again.' And it had two attachments.

John opened the first. It was a video, filmed on a mobile phone, a headshot of Irene Adler. She was speaking to camera.

'By the time you see this, Mr Holmes, I will be a long way away. I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful two days. You have no idea how much I have looked forward to renewing your acquaintance and, rest assured, you did not disappoint. Goodbye, Mr Holmes, until next time.'

She then blew a kiss and the screen went blank. It was with some trepidation that John opened the second attachment. He was appalled by what he saw. He only watched for a couple of seconds, then shut off the video.

'Shit!' he snarled. 'We should delete that!'

'He's seen it,' Anthea stated, bluntly.

'So where is the bitch?' he hissed.

'Ah, well, there's the thing. She's in the American Embassy, beyond our jurisdiction.'

'How the fuck…?'

'She's been working for the CIA, for the past five or so years.'

'What?'

'Yes. She was recruited immediately after she was rescued from the Jihadists, in Karachi. It would seem they felt she had talents they could exploit. She was sent off for training and has been working for them ever since. She has her cover story – the copy editor from Philadelphia – but she is actually a special field agent. She's even taken US citizenship.'

'So what was all that crap about being stalked?'

'Oh, she wasn't being stalked, she was the stalker.'

John shook his head, confused.

'The man she claimed was stalking her, Patrick Stoeckler, is a freedom of information activists. He enables whistle-blowers to get their stories out there, anonymously.'

'So why would she be interested in him?'

'He published a number of revealing top secret documents about various questionable Black Ops in European countries – mostly Extraordinary Renditions.'

'But that is illegal, against International Law,' John exclaimed.

'Exactly. So the Yanks were not best pleased. They declared him a threat to national security and applied to the British Government for an extradition order for him, to face charges in the USA but the application was turned down so Irene and her team, we believe, were sent to carry out an Extraordinary Rendition on him. They tracked him across Europe, where he was meeting with various people who claimed to have been victims of ER, in the past. He was gathering evidence for a big expose, on line. Then, we think he got wind that he was being followed, so he dropped off the radar. It was believed he was in London, so Miss Adler suggested she do her 'damsel in distress' act and get Sherlock to find him. She figured that if anyone could find him, it would be him.'

'Unfortunately, she was absolutely right.'

'Yes, well. Equally fortunately, as soon as he submitted Stoeckler's image to the FaxRex, it was flagged up – for two reasons. In the first instance, he was already marked as a Person of Interest, because of his political activities and the US application for extradition. In the second instance, in the aftermath of the Dame Joan business, all our security systems were overhauled and we installed on all our software a tracker worm which would lead us back to any outside agency that hacked into our systems.'

John was dumbfounded by what he was hearing. This was real James Bond stuff. Anthea continued,

'When Sherlock hacked in this morning, not only did we know who he was seeking but also that he was the seeker. The tech guys alerted Mycroft that his brother was up to his old tricks and so Mycroft guessed that Sherlock had, somehow, been duped into doing the CIA's dirty work. Mycroft had Stoeckler picked up, immediately, and taken to a safe house. Then, he tried to contact Sherlock, to tell him what he was mixed up with and how much danger he was in but he couldn't raise him. Now we know why.'

'So, when you go here, where was Irene? How did she make it to the US Embassy?'

'When we picked up Stoeckler, the Yanks were just about to snatch him. We got there just in time and took him out from under their noses. They must have called the Mission Abort and all the field operatives scarpered to the Embassy, her included. By the time we got here, she was gone.'

'John?' Sherlock's voice sounded from the bedroom. John strode across the landing and in through the door. Sherlock was sitting up on the side of the bed, with the sheet wrapped around him. He looked like death.

'I need to take a shower,' he rasped.

John knelt on one knee, next to him and looked into his face.

'Sherlock – mate – you can't. It'll destroy the evidence.'

Sherlock looked at him, as though not quite comprehending his words.

'She raped you, man. We need to preserve the evidence to get a conviction,' John said, as gently as he could, though painfully aware of the full horror that those words conveyed. Sherlock looked him full in the eye and said,

'There's no point, John. She won't stand trial. She has diplomatic immunity. She's protected.'

He pushed down on the mattress and lurched to his feet. John put out a hand to steady him but he pushed it away. He didn't want anyone to touch him. He felt so defiled, so contaminated. The only thing he wanted to feel was the cleansing sting of hot, hot water. He stumbled through the door of the shower room, pushed it closed and leant on it, momentarily, to give his head time to stop spinning. Then he reached out, past the shower screen and switched on the water, turning up the temperature, as high as he could stand it.

ooOoo

Molly heard the double fire doors open and close in her Pathology Lab. She was in the middle of writing up a post mortem report and barely registered the intrusion until she saw a tall, thin figure approach, in her peripheral vision, and stop next to her desk and a familiar voice said her name. She looked up, surprised.

'Mycroft!'

As soon as she saw his face, her heart lurched and the colour drained from her cheeks.

'What's happened?' she gasped. Mycroft reached down for her hand.

'He's safe, now,' he reassured her.

'What did she do to him?'

Mycroft looked down at his feet. He was rarely lost for words but, on this occasion, he had to really search for the right ones.

'She sexually assaulted him. I believe the term is 'date rape', though I hardly think the word 'date' is appropriate.'

'Oh, my God. Where is he?'

'Baker Street,' he answered.

'I need to go to him,' she declared, jumping up from her seat, then turning back to close the file on her computer and log off. Even in a dire emergency, protocols had to be followed. Having secured her pc, she ran to the staff lounge and grabbed her coat and bag.

'I have to get Freddie,' she explained, and led the way through the hospital maze of corridors toward the crèche, with Mycroft striding along beside her.

ooOoo


	11. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Many thanks to the people who pointed out the several typos in this chapter. The emotion was clearly getting to me! All fixed now - I hope!**

**Chapter Ten**

The sleek black staff car pulled up outside the house in Baker Street and the tall thin man got out and offered his hand to the small lady, with the long chestnut hair, carrying the chubby baby in the car seat. The utter normality of this activity made it unremarkable to any of the passers-by, moving up and down this busy Central London street. The purpose of this visit to this ordinary house in this ordinary street was anything but ordinary.

Mycroft held the door for Molly to enter and took the baby seat from her, to carry it and its occupant up the stairs, to the first floor flat. The man in the dark grey suit, standing on the landing, nodded respectfully to Mycroft, and indicated the bedroom door. Molly entered first and was met by John Watson. Anthea rose from the chair, by the window, as the three newcomers entered. John gave Molly a prolonged, comforting hug, for which she was indescribably grateful.

'Where is he?' she asked.

John indicated the bathroom.

'He's been in there for ages. He said he wanted a shower. The water's been running for about twenty minutes.'

Molly turned to Mycroft, who had placed the baby seat on the bed and lifted Freddie out.

'Are you OK with him?' she asked.

'Of course,' was his reply, before turning his attention to the baby and engaging him in some lively lap play.

Molly approached the bathroom door and tapped on it, gently.

'Sherlock, can I come in?' she called, softly, into the crack between the door and the frame. After a short pause, the door relented a fraction. She pushed it open, just enough to allow her entry, then closed it again, hiding her from the view of the occupants of the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, behind the door, still wrapped in his bed sheet. The room was so full of steam, it was hard to see him, even though he was so close – it was a very small room. Molly sat down on the lid of the toilet and leaned her elbows on her thighs, inclining her body towards him.

'Do you mind if I turn off the shower?' she asked, quietly. After a moment, he nodded, so she stood up and reached past the shower screen to shut off the water. The quiet was palpable. She sat back on the toilet lid.

'Decided against the shower?' she queried, keeping her voice low, gentle, soothing.

'Not yet,' he replied, his voice deep, quiet, breathy. He leaned his head back against the wall, so he could see her face. 'I've been arguing about it, with myself. I'm not sure who's won yet.'

'Need a referee?' she enquired. He gave a small, assenting shrug. She leaned back against the cistern, folding her hands in her lap, adopting a listening pose, and waited. Eventually, he spoke again.

'I need to gather and preserve the evidence, collect samples of skin, saliva, semen, and vaginal fluid. I should take blood samples, before all the ketamine is metabolised, a urine sample, too, and hair samples – that will show whether or not I'm a regular user or if this is a one-off. I should take nail scrapings – always very informative - and nail clippings, too.'

'That sounds pretty thorough to me. What does the other you think?

'I want to feel clean again, to wash the contamination off my skin, to scrub away every trace of her infestation, get her stench out of my nostrils, the taste of her out of my mouth and the sound of her out of my ears.'

He gave another small shrug, resting his case.

'Do you see them as being mutually exclusive?' she posited, in a murmur.

He gave that due consideration.

'Not necessarily. The stumbling block is the actual gathering of the evidence.'

'What's the problem?'

'I don't think I can do it myself but I don't want anyone else to do it.'

'Why do you think that is?' she coaxed, gently.

'I don't want anyone else to be contaminated.'

'Isn't that avoidable?'

'Is it?'

'I think it is.'

'How?'

'Scientific protocol.'

He thought about that. It seemed to make sense. He needed to divorce the process from the sentiment. He had been a consummate master at that, once, but, somewhere along the line, the parameters had moved.

'I don't know if I can do that, at the moment.'

'I could,' she declared, with complete certainty. He looked into her eyes and saw her purity of purpose.

'Would you?'

She nodded.

'OK,' he breathed.

Molly stood up and moved to the door, opening it just wide enough to reach out.

'John, could you pass me my bag, please?' she requested.

John Watson looked around and located Molly's voluminous work bag and picked it up, passing it to her outstretched hand.

'Perhaps you could all go and have a cup of tea?' she suggested, with an apologetic smile. She knew it was killing both John and Mycroft not to be able to give Sherlock the comfort they knew he needed but right now, what he needed most was science and she – a forensic pathologist – could give him that.

She closed the door and sat down again. He hadn't moved from his position, wedged in the corner, between the wall and the side of the shower cubicle. He jerked his head toward her work bag.

'What's in there?'

'A rape kit. I brought it with me, from work, just in case you needed it.'

He nodded his approval of her forward thinking.

'Where would you like to start?'

'Blood,' he stated emphatically. His scientist's brain had assumed dominance, for now. It provided a buffer against the emotional turmoil that had threatened to overwhelm him. He was grateful for that.

ooOoo

Molly took the rape kit out of her bag and, opening it up, she spread it out on top of the bathroom cupboard, everything individually wrapped in sterile plastic. She took out a pair of nitrile gloves and snapped them on. Taking a second pair, she offered them to Sherlock. After a tiny hesitation, he accepted them and put them on. Taking out the tourniquet, she looked at him and he extended his arm for her to put it on. He rested his elbow on his raised knee and watched as the vein became increasingly engorged. He continued to watch the procedure, as she knelt on the floor next to him and went through all the stages of taking two vials of blood, which she labelled, carefully, as he pressed down on the cotton swab and flexed his fist to his shoulder.

'Next?' she asked.

'Skin.'

She opened the kit and offered the scraper to him. He took it and harvested the sample. She held out the receptacle and he dropped it in, for her to seal, label and store.

And so it went, as they worked together, in perfect synchronicity, gathering the evidence, labelling, storing, systematically, in logical order.

'Semen?'

'There's a used condom, on the floor, in the bedroom.'

'She used a condom?'

'More for her own benefit than mine, I'm sure.'

'So that will have the vaginal fluid traces, too,' she tallied, mentally.

He nodded.

They continued down the list of required items until every box was metaphorically ticked, almost.

'Just urine and nails – and nail scrapings,' she concluded.

He ripped off the gloves and presented his hand to her. She took the nail scrapings first and then the clippings. Then she handed him the plastic container for the urine sample, and moved out of the way so he could access the toilet. That collected, he stood against the wall, and pulled the sheet closer around him. Molly turned to him, having secured all the samples in the container provided.

'All, done, then,' she announced. 'You can shower, now. Are you OK with that?'

He nodded his head. They had touched each other several times during the gathering of evidence but now the formal process was concluded, he seemed to be withdrawing again. She gathered up the rape kit and her bag.

'OK, I'll go and find the condom. You take as long as you need.' She nodded, emphatically and squeezed out of the door. As she began to search the floor, around the bed, she heard the shower go on again. She found the final piece of evidence without too much trouble, secured it with the other samples, spotted the hypo on the bedside cabinet and dropped that into an evidence bag too, adding it to the collection and then sealed the pack, stuffing it back in her bag. She looked around at the room – the scene of the crime. The bed linen would need to be bagged up, and his clothes, too. She didn't have any bags big enough. Where was Anderson, when you needed him? She walked through to the sitting room, where John, Anthea and Mycroft were gathered and Freddie was asleep on the sofa, taking his afternoon nap. Mycroft rose to his feet, on reflex, when she entered the room.

'Mycroft, who is going to process all this evidence? I take it this is not going to be reported to the police, or is it?'

'No, Molly, dear, my people will process the evidence. Any action will be taken through the diplomatic corp.'

'Well, I need something sterile to put the bed linen and clothes in, so they can be processed, too.' Being professional was keeping her from crumbling, so she needed to stay as detached as possible. John got up and fished in the cupboard under the sink, coming out with a roll of swing bin liners. Mrs Hudson always kept the flat well provisioned with cleaning materials. He handed the roll to her.

'Can I do anything?' he asked. He needed to feel useful.

'Yes, please, John, could you help me sort out the bedroom? We need to strip the bed and remake it and you know where Mrs Hudson keeps the bed linen.' They both returned to the room at the back of the house.

ooOoo

Sherlock stood under the shower, feeling the hot water sting his skin, letting it run down from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, cleansing, stripping, scouring. The noise of the water drowned out the sound of her voice, temporarily, at least. He wanted to forget what had happened but he knew that was impossible. There would be no deleting this from his hard drive. He knew what he really had to do was confront it and face it down. It was his mind palace, all over again. Confront your demons, exorcize them. And the sooner the better – but not right now. He also knew that there was only one person he wanted to tell it all to. She was the only one who needed to know but was that fair on her? She had already enabled him to do so much – the evidence gathering – in a way that no one else could have, so calm, so measured, so sensitive. Right now, he just wanted to curl up in a ball – but he wanted her to be there, wrapped around him like a protective cocoon.

He shut off the water. Becoming an obsessive body washer was not on his agenda. He would refuse to allow that bitch to impact on his life any more than was unavoidable. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower cubicle. Wiping the condensation from the bathroom mirror, he looked at his reflection and was immediately reminded of the day before, when he had stood in here, with her sobbing her crocodile tears into his jacket. What a gullible fool he must have seemed to her. But who cared what she thought? If it was gullible to empathise with another human being, then so be it. There was a time he might have agreed with her. John and Molly and Mrs Hudson had taught him that that was a fallacy. Caring may make you vulnerable but it also enriched your life beyond measure. He took a swig of mouth wash, gargled and spat, then shook his head, to remove the loose drops from his hair, then turned and exited the shower room.

The bedroom was restored to its orderly norm. The linen had been changed, the scattered clothes picked up, everything set to rights. And someone – Molly he supposed – had laid out a fresh shirt, boxers and socks on the bed and the suit he kept here, for emergencies, was hanging on the outside of the wardrobe door. The clothes he had arrived in – was it only earlier today? – were nowhere to be seen. They were probably packed away, to be examined for trace evidence. He could hear the hum of conversation in the sitting room. He dried and dressed and put on his shoes – the only item of clothing left that he had been wearing when she attacked him. Well, they were good shoes. He wasn't going to throw them away, just because of her.

Don't get mad, get even, wasn't that the phrase? Well, right now, getting even wasn't really an option but he didn't want to get mad either because the only people who would suffer if he did that would be Molly, the children, Mycroft and John. So he wouldn't do that, either. He would just confront each situation, head on. The next situation he needed to confront was walking into that room where the people who cared about him were assembled. This was how the healing began. This was how the demons were exorcised. He needed to walk in there and not feel self-conscious or embarrassed or awkward in any way.

So he did.

ooOoo


	12. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Sherlock paused, briefly, in the doorway to the sitting room, scanning those assembled within.

John - angry at him, for letting the woman in, in the first place; guilty, for not being here to prevent the attack; sick, at the thought of what his friend had had to endure.

Mycroft - angry and disappointed at him, for getting involved in the first place; angrier still at himself, for not telling him what he knew about the woman and the CIA; full of loathing for the woman, who had violated his brother in this vile manner.

Molly - calm and contained on the outside, raw and bleeding on the inside; desperate to hold him but anxious not to invade his space.

And, finally, Freddie - sound asleep and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around him. And so it would remain!

When Sherlock stepped through the door, into the sitting room, Mycroft rose automatically to offer his brother his favourite chair but he ignored the gesture and went to the sofa, where Molly sat, cradling their sleeping baby. Sherlock bent down, placing his hand gently on the child's head, and dropped a kiss on his brow. Then he did the very same thing to Molly, before sitting down, next to her and leaning back, his hands in his lap. Molly reached out and slipped her hand, gently, into his and they plaited their fingers together, in a well-co-ordinated action that spoke of frequent practice.

Mycroft sat back down, in Sherlock's chair, and looked at this brother. John went to the kitchen and returned with a mug of tea, which Sherlock accepted, gratefully. There was something so comforting about that particular beverage. He noted that Anthea had gone. No doubt she had been dispatched to take the evidence to wherever it would be processed - the Home Office Pathology Lab, at Westminster, no doubt. It was state of the art. They would do a good job, there.

At that precise moment, Anthea was downstairs, in 221A, explaining to a shocked and distraught Mrs Hudson, the devastating event that had taken place, in the flat above, that day. She had been on her way out of the house, bound, indeed, for Westminster, with the bundle of evidence including, in her pocket, Sherlock's phone, containing the two incriminating videos, when she had met Mrs Hudson, returning from her trip to the cinema.

'Hello, dear, I see Mycroft's car's here. Has he come to sort out that hussy, upstairs?' she had asked, in all innocence.

Anthea had ushered her into her own flat, sat her down at the kitchen table and put the kettle on, before imparting the dreadful news, with due sensitivity and consideration for the older lady's status as surrogate mother to the man upstairs. Anthea knew that every event of any import was best faced in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, in the presence of tea. She brewed a pot, poured two cups and sat opposite the older lady, offering comfort and support

'I knew I should never have left him alone with her. She was the very devil, that one! Does Molly know?'

Anthea explained the role that Molly had played in the evidence gathering and that she, herself, was now on her way to deliver the evidence to the Government Path Lab.

'Well, you go on, dear. Don't let me hold you up. You get that dealt with. I'll be fine. You don't get to my age without having to deal with some pretty shocking situations - although this one takes some beating. No, I'm alright, which is more than I can say for that witch, if I should get my hands on her!'

So Anthea left, to fulfil her crucial task and Mrs Hudson sipped her tea, weeping silent tears for her darling boy, whom she felt she'd failed in his hour of greatest need.

As the people in the room upstairs began to talk, to Sherlock and to one another, it was as though he were watching a play. Sitting on the front row, in the audience, he could see and hear the actors but he was beyond the 'fourth wall', separated, detached, not one of them. Molly, on the other hand, felt like an actor, speaking her lines, going through the motions, playing a part. The only thing holding them both in place was the linking of their hands, like a life line.

'Molly, you can't be expected to cope with this on your own. I insist that you, Sherlock and the children come and stay with me, for a day or two,' Mycroft urged.

'No,' was all Sherlock said.

'It is very kind of you, Mycroft, but we need to be at home, in our own home. Sherlock does not feel at home in Hertfordshire. We do appreciate the offer, but, I know you understand that.'

'Well, Mary and I could have the boys for you, overnight, at least,' John offered.

'No,' Sherlock repeated.

'Thank you, John, but we don't want the boys' routine upset,' Molly explained.

'Well, we're just on the end of the phone, you know that,' he conceded.

'Yes, John, and we appreciate that, too.'

'Perhaps Mrs Hudson would come and stay for a few days?' Mycroft suggested.

'No,' that word again.

'No, it's unfair to ask her to do that. We don't have a guest room, now, and we can't expect her to sleep in the same room as Freddie.'

So, it was settled. Sherlock, Molly and Freddie would go home, to where William was being cared for by Marie. Molly had called her to explain that there had been an incident and that they would be a little late. She was happy to stay late, to help out.

Mycroft acquiesced, reluctantly, to that plan. He needed to get back to the office and speak, in person, to the American Ambassador about the serious crime committed, on British soil, by an American citizen and member of the Intelligence service.

John would make sure Mrs Hudson was OK, before returning home to Mary and Lily Rose.

When Mrs Hudson heard footsteps coming down the stairs, she went out into the hallway. Mycroft had already gone out through the front door, carrying little Freddie in the car seat. Looked up the stairs, she saw Molly coming down, followed by Sherlock, who was in turn followed by John. When Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned to her and allowed her to pull him into a gentle hug, which he reciprocated, resting his cheek on the top of her head. When she released him, he turned to the doctor and said, quietly,

'Look after her, please, John?'

'Of course, mate. And you take it easy, yeah? I'll ring tomorrow.'

Sherlock squeezed John's arm, in thanks, and followed Molly out to the staff car. His limbs felt like lead and his head was still light, the residual effects of the Ketamine, but he was also beset by flashback images of Irene's leering face, looming over him. He craved the comfort and security of home. He wanted normality, routine, occupation, purpose. He wanted Molly and his children. He wanted his life back.

He climbed into the back of Mycroft's car and sank onto the firm leather seat, with Freddie, in the car seat belonging to one of Mycroft's twins, still sleeping, next to him. Molly sat opposite and Mycroft next to her. The silent man in the dark, grey suit sat in the front seat, next to the driver, and kept a wary eye out of the windows. Sherlock gazed out of the side window at the streets of London, as the car made its way, through rush hour traffic, to the quiet residential crescent in Smithfield. On arrival, outside their home, the driver retrieved the folded baby buggy from the boot and carried it up the path, whilst Mycroft lifted Freddie out of the car seat and handed him to Molly, through the open door of the car. He then put out his hand to stop Sherlock, as he was about to step from the car. Having got his brother's attention, he was at a loss as to what to say. What does one say to a sibling, for whose well-being one has felt responsible all one's life, at a time like this?

'She will not get away with this, Sherlock, trust me,' he said, at last.

'I do trust you, Mycroft. And I'm sorry I abused your trust.'

Mycroft waved his hand, dismissively. They could discuss the wisdom or otherwise of breaking into a government computer network some other time. Right now, it paled into insignificance, alongside the gravity of the current situation. Sherlock leant forward and pulled his older brother into a one-armed hug, then climbed out of the car and followed Molly down the path to the front door of the building. The man from the ministry moved across to the seat just vacated by his little brother and instructed the driver to return to Whitehall. There was a long conversation to be had with a certain senior American diplomat and Mycroft was more than up to the task.

ooOoo

When they entered the flat, Molly and Sherlock were met by a tearful William. Always sensitive to sudden deviations from routine, the little boy had been putting on a brave face, until he heard the sound of his parents returning, then the sense of relief over-powered him. He ran into the hallway and buried his face in Molly's midriff.

'Mummy, where were you? 'Deadly Sixty' finished and you weren't here. Then the news came on and you still weren't here and Marie started cooking supper and you usually do that but you weren't here.'

Molly was hampered by having her arms full with Freddie, who had woken up, when the car stopped moving, but Sherlock reached down and scooped up the weeping boy, hugging his to his chest, and castigating himself for being the root cause of his child's distress.

'I am so sorry, William. It's my fault Mummy was late. She had to come and help me. I made her late,' Sherlock explained, standing in the hall way, shushing and rocking, soothingly. Having released all his tension in the sudden gush of tears, the little boy began to regain his composure. He pushed away from Sherlock's shoulder, so he could look his father in the eye, and said,

'I would have helped you, Daddy, if you had asked me.'

'I know you would, Will, but it was something only Mummy could do,' Sherlock explained, as he carried his eldest son into the sitting room and sat in the armchair, placing him in his lap. 'Would you like to do something only you can do?' he asked.

William nodded, earnestly.

'Ok, would you name the moons of Saturn for me? I can never remember them.'

William looked alarmed.

'All of them, Daddy? There are more than fifty that we know about already and Cassini keeps finding new ones all the time!'

'Are there that many, really? Ah, you know I'm hopeless on the Solar System. Alright, not all of them, then, just the main ones.'

The mini astrophysicist turned his gaze to the ceiling and began to tick off the moons of Saturn on his fingers.

'There's Titan, Mimas, Tethys, Rhea, Dione.' William loved these names. He loved the sound they made and the way they felt on his tongue and lips.

'Phoebe, Janus, Pan, Calypso and Atlas,' he recited, then stopped and looked down at his hands.

'I think that's enough for now, Daddy. I've got no more fingers.'

'That is enough, thank you. I'll try to remember them. You can test me, sometime.'

The little boy smiled and nodded his approval of that idea, put his arms around his father's neck and hugged him tight. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in the child's scent, feeling a cocktail of emotions threatening to overflow. He swallowed them down. He couldn't give way, yet. He had to stay strong, just a little while longer.

Molly was apologising profusely to Marie for keeping her so late, and thanking her for taking care of William and cooking supper, too.

'It's no trouble, Molly, really. I have nothing on tonight and I'm more than happy to help out, you know that,' Marie assured her. She had no idea what had kept her employers away from home until this late hour but one look at Molly's face, noting the stress and strain she was fighting so hard to hold at bay and the fragile state that Sherlock was clearly in, told her all she needed to know. Some tragedy had occurred. Was it Mrs Hudson? Had something befallen that wonderful older lady?

'Do you need me to stay? I can deal with the children and leave you free to take care of him.' She indicated Sherlock, with a small movement of her head.

Molly turned to look in the direction that Marie indicated. Sherlock was hugging William to his chest. His eyes were screwed tight shut and his face was completely devoid of colour. He looked on the edge of total collapse.

Molly gave a weak smile, full of gratitude.

'That would be so kind of you, Marie. He wants everything to carry on as normal but I know that's not possible. The longer he holds out, the worse it will be when he lets go. If you could at least give me a hand to get the children to bed, I would be so grateful.'

Handing Freddie over to the nanny, Molly crossed to the chair, occupied by Sherlock and William.

'Suppers ready, Will,' she announced, brightly, and, as the little boy looked up, expectantly, she smiled and said, 'Go and wash your hands, there's a good boy,' and ruffled his hair.

William wriggle out of his father's lap and trotted off to the bathroom to carry out his mother's bidding. Molly turned to Sherlock, who was now sitting bolt upright and gripping the arms of the chair as though his life depended upon it, his knuckles white from the effort. She smoothed her hand, gently, over the side of his head.

'Why don't you go and lie down, babe? Marie is going to stay and help me get the children to bed.'

He closed his eyes and inclined his head to her touch, longing for the comfort and care embodied in that small gesture. He knew she was right. He couldn't keep up the pretence, especially not in front of a perceptive child, like William, who picked up on every nuance of body language.

'Yes,' he breathed, gathering himself together and pushing up from the chair. Crossing the room, he put out one hand, to steady himself against the door frame, and disappeared in the direction of the master bedroom.

Molly turned back to the kitchen, where Marie had popped Freddie into his high chair and was wiping his hands and putting on his bib. The nanny looked at her, with growing concern, as she saw tears brimming in her eyes and her lips beginning to tremble. She came round the table and put her arms round the lady whom she felt had become her friend and co-confidant. But Molly quickly regained control, concerned that Freddie and, more specifically, William were not alarmed.

'Oh, Marie, this has been a horrible day but we will get through this. I will explain what's happened, once the boys are in bed but, for now, I'm just so grateful to you for being here.'

The two women hugged, then went about the immediate business of the evening meal and bedtime, with a grim determination to keep calm and carry on.

ooOoo


	13. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twelve**

Mycroft walked into his office and picked up the phone. In the absence of Anthea, he was routed straight to the central switch board.

'Good evening, sir. How can I help you?' the operator asked.

'Good evening, Jane.' Mycroft always recognised the telephone operators by their voices. If he got one he didn't know, he would ask for the password of the day, and then their name. One could never be too careful.

'I'd like to speak to the American Ambassador, please. Ring me back when you have him. Thank you.' He hung up.

Walking across to the side board, he picked up the cut crystal decanter and poured himself a large shot of single malt. It was definitely a single malt sort of day. He had barely returned to his chair when the phone trilled. He picked up the receiver.

'Good evening, Ambassador, I trust you are well,' he began.

'Good evening to you, Mr Holmes. I am well, thank you, and trust you are, too.'

'Yes, thank you,' Mycroft replied. The pleasantries over, Mycroft cut to the chase.

'I'm sure you appreciate the dim view taken by the Prime Minister of the attempt, by members of your security services, to abduct a British resident, today.'

'Mr Holmes, whilst I have the greatest respect for your Prime Minister and for your department, I must remind you that these allegations are entirely unfounded. There is no evidence, at this time, to support your assertions.'

This was standard practice in these circumstances, all part of the game of international diplomacy, so Mycroft was not at all surprised.

'A British citizen was inadvertently involved in the operation, unaware that he was assisting a Black Ops team. Having located the intended target, the man was seriously assaulted by a team member.'

'I am quite unable to comment on the incident to which you refer, Mr Holmes, since no such operation has taken place.'

'The person responsible for the serious assault is known to this department. She has previous involvement in questionable activities, prior to her recruitment, by your people, as a covert operations specialist.'

Mr Holmes, I am unable to comment on your allegations with regard to this person.'

'But you do know to whom I refer,' Mycroft insisted.

'I believe so,' the Ambassador replied.

'Then I would beg your indulgence, sir. We are currently processing the evidence which will prove that the woman in question committed this assault. I would be extremely grateful if you would delay repatriation of this persdon until we can complete our investigations.'

'But Mr Holmes – Mycroft – may I be frank? And off the record?'

Mycroft and the Ambassador shared a long-standing acquaintance. The American had been Head of House in Mycroft's first year at Eton, and was one of a long line of his family members who had risen to the very heights in the US diplomatic corps, beginning with his great-grandfather. Old school ties, as well as familial ones, could be very binding.

'I would prefer you to be frank, sir, since this matter is extremely personal to me.'

'Yes, I am aware of that, which is why I am prepared to be flexible. I empathise with your outrage that a person close to you has been exploited in this way….'

'Exploited, Austin?' Mycroft was as close as he had ever come to losing his cool. 'Are you cognisant of all the details, with regard to this assault?'

There was a long pause, on the other end of the line, until the Ambassador said,

'Perhaps you would enlighten me?'

'She raped my brother, Austin. She incapacitated him with a date rape drug and then raped him. It wasn't a big dose, so not enough to render him unconscious, just incapable of defending himself. And she videoed part of the assault and sent it to him, in an email, along with a personal, rather mocking, message.'

The subsequent pause was even longer but, eventually, the other man spoke again.

'I am appalled by what you've told me, Mycroft, so I am prepared to delay her departure for one week. I wish it could be more but that is beyond my power. However, I'm sure I don't need to remind you, my dear friend, that, as a serving member of our security services, she has diplomatic immunity.'

'Yes, of course, sir, I know. And thank you. I greatly appreciate your co-operation.'

'And, Mycroft, please accept my sincere apologies for this dreadful incident. I hope and pray your brother makes a full and speedy recovery.'

Thank you, Austin. It is what we all wish for. And might I give you some, advice, as a friend? She's a loose cannon. You will never control her.'

'I believe you're absolutely right. I think she has far too great a tendency to go off piste but there are those amongst us who think she is a risk worth taking. Perhaps when they learn of her latest exploit, they may have a change of heart.'

'One can but hope,' Mycroft replied.

The two men exchanged farewells and ended the call. Mycroft sat back and sipped his single malt, looking at the antique clock, on the mantle above the fireplace. It was late. His twin babies would be in bed now. It was too late to go home. He would spend the night in his town flat, in Cadogan Square, and get an early start, tomorrow, with regard to the business of bringing this woman to justice. He picked up the phone again and dialled another number. The duty nanny answered.

'Good evening, Michele. How are my babies this evening?' he asked. She gave him a full account of the children's day. He asked a few questions, which were answered to his satisfaction, then, he rounded off the conversation.

'Please give them a hug for me, Michele. I will try to come home early, tomorrow.' He ended the call. He rarely stayed away from home, these days, when he was in the country but sometimes, like today, it was unavoidable.

Taking another sip of his whiskey, he dialled again. This time, he was answered by a member of the British security services, on duty at the safe house to which Patrick Stoeckler had been hastily spirited, that afternoon.

'Yes, good evening,' he replied to the field agent's greeting. 'Is our guest comfortable?' The reply was in the affirmative. 'I will pay him a visit in the morning. Please tell him to expect me.' He ended that call, too.

Settling back into his seat, he savoured the unique flavours of the Lagavulin as he ran over the principal points of his plan, looking for loopholes.

ooOoo

Having fed Freddie and put him to bed in his cot, Molly returned to the kitchen, where Marie had made a pot of tea. She sat down at the table and related, to the nanny, the bald facts of what had happened at Baker Street that day.

'Oh, my god, Molly, how awful – no, beyond awful! I can't think of a word bad enough! Well, that settles it. I'm staying here tonight. There is no way I could possibly leave you to look after Sherlock and the two boys all on your own, not to mention how you must be feeling yourself. No way!' Marie was so adamant. She was perfectly happy to sleep in the spare bed, in Freddie's room.

'I'm sure you can lend me a night dress or even an old t-shirt, I don't mind,' she insisted. 'I always carry a toothbrush and a spare pair of knickers. Well, you never know when you might need them, do you.'

Despite everything that had happened, even Molly could not help but smile at that remark. She remembered when she used to do the self-same thing, when she was young and single – and lonely.

'If you are absolutely sure you don't mind, I really would appreciate having someone close at hand,' she admitted.

'That's settled then,' replied Marie, and it was.

ooOoo

Having finished their tea, Molly excused herself. She was exhausted from all the trauma of the day and wanted to be with Sherlock, anyway. Marie said she would watch TV for a while and then have an early night herself, so Molly bade her goodnight and went through to the bedroom she and Sherlock shared.

He was curled up, under the duvet, his back to the door. The meal she had brought him, on a tray, was on the bedside cabinet, cold and untouched. She wasn't surprised. He was not a good eater at the best of times. Molly moved the tray to the top of the chest of drawers then tiptoed into the bathroom, to get ready for bed. She brushed her teeth, cleansed and moisturised her face, changed into her nightdress and used the toilet, before turning out the light and returning to the bedroom.

Sherlock was now lying on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She approached the bed and lifting the corner of the duvet, climbed in beside him. He immediately turned toward her, pressing his forehead into her midriff, in a manner not dissimilar to the way William had, when they had arrived home so late, earlier in the evening. She put one hand on the back of his head and the other round his shoulders, and bent over him, resting her cheek against the top of his head.

'I am so sorry, Molly,' he said, with a heartfelt groan that vibrated in his chest.

'Sorry for what?' she asked, torn with concern for his misery. 'You have nothing to be sorry for.'

He pulled away and sat up, looking at her, with a stricken expression, which took her right back to the night before he went away, the night that William was conceived.

'But I do, don't you see? John warned me about her, you warned me, Mrs Hudson warned me. God, even I warned me! I had a dream that first night, do you remember, the day she arrived? It woke me up – it woke you up!'

He was febrile, almost manic, talking at the speed of thought, as he did when deducing. He turned away from her, rolled off the bed and began pacing up and down the room, gesticulating wildly, with his hands

'I was dreaming about Karachi. First of all, it was about the rescue, up in the mountains, but then it changed to the American High Commission and she and I were in bed together, having sex – and I mean full on sex – and suddenly, she turned into Moriarty. It freaked me out, at the time. I didn't know what to think. I mean to say, I have never had lustful thoughts about another male, ever, not even at school, where some of the boys used to get up to all sorts, just for the hell of it, sometimes. So I knew it didn't mean I fancied him.'

'But now, I finally figured it out, what that dream was about. I was trying to warn myself that she was dangerous, as dangerous as Moriarty, that she was ruthless, that she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted, just as he did – though perhaps not to the extent of shooting herself in the head – no, she is far too self-serving for that.'

Molly just sat on the bed and let him talk or rather shout. She was worried he might wake the boys, or alarm Marie, but there were two closed doors between him and them so she let him rant. He needed to get it all out and she knew that if she interrupted, said anything at all, it might throw him off course and he would lose his train of thought. He had obviously been going through it in his head, all evening; analysing, referencing, cross-referencing, looking for where he had gone wrong. He needed to do this in his own way, using logical analysis to solve the puzzle of how this woman had managed to get the better of him, yet again, and in such a devastating, humiliating, emasculating way.

'She was clever, oh, yes, so very clever. You said it yourself; she knew how to push my buttons. She knew, you see. What I liked. Or, she thought she did. And, in a way, she was right. Six years ago, I went all the way to Karachi, risked my life and called in a massive favour from the US government, just to have sex with her. Not because I was in love with her or even attracted to her, particularly, but to prove a point - that I was not a virgin. That is what I like, you see. It's what I've always liked – I like to prove I'm right.'

He stopped ranting, stopped pacing, stopped everything, closed his eyes tight and threw his head back, holding his breath. Then his head fell forward and he dropped back onto the bed, hunched over in a attitude of utter defeat, and resumed his exposition, slowly, painfully, barely above a whisper.

'The thing is, I was attracted to her, on a physical level. She has this power, like a succubus, that is irresistible. The moment I heard her voice, on my text alert, it took me straight back to that night in Karachi. My sensory memory was stimulated and it responded. So, then I had to prove that I could resist her, that she had no power over me. So I let her in. I ignored the warnings and I put myself in harm's way, just to prove that I was right.'

He was weeping, now, the tears leaking from his eyes and running down his face, soaking his cheeks and dripping from his chin, onto his knees. He made no attempt to brush them away, seemed quite oblivious to their presence. His voice was broken, his chest and shoulders heaving, but he went on talking,

'I risked everything – you, William, Freddie, our home – everything we have, everything that's important to me. Just to prove a stupid, bloody point. So, you see, it is my fault. I brought this on myself and on you but I am so sorry.'

Molly's chest was heaving, too, and her cheeks were as wet as his, as she watched him castigate himself, beat himself raw, with recriminations. And the most painful thing of all was that he did not ask for forgiveness. Because he believed he didn't deserve it. Barely aware of what she did, she slid off the bed and went round to the other side, kneeling on the floor in front of him, taking his face in her hands, forcing him to make eye contact. She smoothed her thumbs across his cheeks, brushing the tears aside, and pressed her forehead to his, hissing, fiercely,

'Stop this. Stop this, now. Even if everything you have said is true – and I don't doubt for one minute that it is, because you are never wrong in your deductions – you did what you did to prove your love for me and for the boys. I know you love me and our children and that you would never do anything, deliberately, to hurt us.'

He ground his knuckles into the mattress, as he stared back, dismayed by the vehemence in her voice, distressed by the fire in her eyes. He turned away from her, shaking his head, refusing to look at her.

'Don't do this, Molly. Please, just don't.'

But she wasn't finished.

'I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I have loved you from the very moment we met. The man I love would risk everything to prove something that he believed in. I wouldn't expect anything less.'

She smoothed the hair out of his eyes then placed her hand on his shoulder, and spoke with a burning sincerity.

'I know you would do anything for your family. I know you did this for us. So, you see, you are wrong. You have nothing to feel sorry for. Nothing.'

'Don't try to make me into a hero, Molly. You and John, really, it's too much.'

He released a shuddering sigh and eased himself, slowly, down onto the pillows, drawing his knees up and curling into a ball. She climbed onto the bed and wrapped herself around him. He continued to heave great sighs, until she felt his body relax and his breathing slow, from sheer exhaustion. This was only the beginning, she knew. There was still a long way to go.

She lay awake, deep into the night, holding him close and thinking about the woman who had tried to destroy her man. There was one persistent thought that kept asserting itself in her mind, her scientific mind, the mind of the pathologist. And in that thought there lay, perhaps, ultimate revenge - the undoing of the other woman.

ooOoo


	14. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

When she awoke, in the morning, they had both moved around in the night. He was now wrapped around her, in a tangle of arms and legs, and as she opened her eyes, she met his gaze.

'Hello' she murmured, still drowsy from sleep.

He moved his hand to comb his fingers through her hair and pressed his lips to her temple.

'Thank you' he breathed.

'For what?'

'For being you, for loving me, just for…everything.'

She wrinkled her brow, bemused.

'Molly, last night I told you that I was attracted to another woman, that I dreamt about having sex with her, whilst sleeping right here, in this bed, next to you. You didn't even bat an eyelid. Even someone as socially inept as I, can see that is exceptional.'

She thought about that for a moment, then replied,

'Thinking and feeling are not the same as doing. We are all capable of thinking and feeling things that we shouldn't. It's how we act on those thoughts and feelings that counts. I trust you, Sherlock, and I'll always trust you as long as you don't give me a reason not to.'

She took his hand and plaited their fingers together, then kissed his cheek.

'You don't commit easily but, having made a commitment, you are steadfast and loyal. I've seen it with all your close relationships, few though they are – John Mrs Hudson, even Greg Lestrade. You would sooner die than betray your friends. You did die, to save them. I don't think you have it in you to be disloyal.'

'I think Mycroft might challenge you on that point,' he countered, looking down, feeling uncomfortable in the face of such a commendation.

'Mycroft is your brother. Sibling relationships are covered by a different set of rules. The loyalty there is so deep-seated that it'll survive anything - even the occasional betrayal. But, when the chips were down, you were the one he came to and you were right there for him.'

He drew her to him and sighed, feeling the warmth of her body, through the material of his t-shirt. His manic rant of the night before had eased the pressure in his head and chest. He felt lighter, less weighed down, relieved of tension. He had slept well, too, better than he had expected, held in Molly's loving embrace, swaddled in her comforting presence. She radiated love and he basked in its warm glow.

His thoughts returned to the present.

'Mycroft seems to think he can bring her to justice. If anyone can, he can, but frankly I don't see how. The US government would have to waive her immunity, and I can't see that happening. I'm sure she is far too valuable an asset to sacrifice over a charge which will be virtually impossible to prove.'

Molly did not need him to explain his last statement. There were only two people present, at the time of the rape, so it was his word against hers. Even if it came to trial, it would be difficult to convince a jury that he had not been a willing participant. The fact that he had previously had a sexual relationship with her would go against him and many people, both male and female, would find it hard to believe that a man, when offered sex by a woman who looked like her, would turn it down. Even the presence of the ketamine was not proof of coercion, since it was also used in consensual sex.

As though following her train of thought – which, more than likely, he was – he added,

'Do I really want to stand up in court and have her defence counsel dissect our personal life? That could be more traumatic than the actual assault.'

Molly reached up, to place her hand against his cheek, and looked into his eyes.

'If it should come to court, I will be there every day to support you. Whatever they want to know, you just tell them. She should be punished for what she did to you, whatever it takes.'

She was suddenly reminded of her idea from the night before. She sat up, abruptly.

'Sherlock, does diplomatic immunity apply to all crimes?'

'According to the Vienna Convention, no, not if it's a serious crime and it's deemed to be in the public interest to prosecute. But the home country would still need to waive the immunity.'

'Then we could have the answer to our prayers,' she murmured, distractedly.

ooOoo

Mycroft stepped from the sleek, black staff car and into the safe house where Patrick Stoeckler was being guarded by British Secret Service personnel. He was greeted, respectfully, by the agent on duty and escorted into the sitting room of the house. Another agent rose to her feet and nodded her greeting, too.

'Would you care for some tea, sir?' she asked. Mycroft's penchant for that most English of beverages was well known, throughout the service.

'In deed, I would,' he replied, sitting down in one of the easy chairs and crossing one knee over the other. The male agent went off to make the tea and the female sat back down, opposite Mycroft.

'Is Mr Stoeckler up and about?' he asked, looking around for signs of the man in question.

'I believe he's taking a shower, sir. He has been advised of your arrival.'

Mycroft nodded, took his antique Hunter watch, a family heirloom, from the pocket of his waistcoat, looked at it, pursed his lips and returned it to the pocket. He tapped his fingers, impatiently, on the arms of the chair and wrinkled his brow, in disapproval at being kept waiting.

When the tea arrived, on a tray, the female agent indicated, by a movement of her head, that the man should go and hurry Stoeckler along. He left the room and she began to serve the tea. Mycroft noted that she served it exactly as he liked it – pouring the tea first and then adding the milk until it was just the right mix. She then handed the cup and saucer to him to stir and then to drink. He wondered, absently, whether it had been included in the training programme – how to make tea for Mr Holmes. If it had, he approved, wholeheartedly.

He sat and sipped his beverage until, eventually, Patrick Stoeckler appeared in the room. The young man wandered in, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair still damp and in disarray, from the shower, his feet bare, looking altogether most dishevelled. He threw himself down on the sofa, in a manner so reminiscent of Sherlock that Mycroft almost smiled.

'How about a cup of tea for me, then?' the young man demanded. The female agent indicated the spare cup and saucer.

'Please, feel free,' she said.

Stoeckler, rather disgruntled, sat forward and poured himself a cup of the hot brew, then looked at his visitor and said,

'Who the hell are you?'

Mycroft leaned forward and placed his empty cup and saucer on the coffee table, then sat back and folded his hands in his lap before replying.

'I, Mr Stoeckler, am the man who saved your life – or at least your life style. Were it not for me, you would, likely as not, be in Guantanamo Bay by now, wearing an orange boiler suit and living in a metal cage, under constant surveillance, possibly even being tortured.' He paused to see what effect, if any, his words had had.

'Am I supposed to be grateful?' the young man sneered.

Mycroft gave that question due consideration, then replied,

'Hmmm, not necessarily grateful but probably thankful, as I think I would be, in your situation.'

Patrick Stoeckler slurped his tea, loudly, and stared, sullenly, back at Mycroft.

'However, whether you are grateful or thankful or indeed none of the above, is entirely immaterial. I have a proposition to put to you which I think might be quite appealing.'

'Does it include getting out of this goldfish bowl and away from your goons?' Stoeckler spat.

'Mr Stoeckler, if you would care to take your chances out on the street, you are free to leave at any time, I assure you. We would not wish to hold you here against your will.' Mycroft raised one eyebrow and gave his best lizard smile.

Stoeckler looked sulky, the wind rather taken from his sails.

'Alright, what's this proposition?' he mumbled.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and then recrossed them, placing the left over the right, this time, then went on.

'I believe you have been researching for an article on Extraordinary Rendition?'

It was a rhetorical question but Stoeckler chose to answer it.

'So what? You won't stop me writing it. I have campaigned tirelessly, most of my life, for freedom of speech, specifically against the likes of you, Mr Whoever the Fuck you are, so you can throw me to the fucking Americans for all I care. You won't stop me telling the world the truth!'

During the process of his little outburst, the young man had risen to his feet and now stood, just the other side of the coffee table, glaring down at Mycroft, who did not move a muscle but continued to gaze at him, with an expression of extreme tedium. After a moment or two of relative quiet, but for the rapid panting of the incensed activist, Mycroft replied.

'My dear man, I have no intention of stopping you from writing your article, quite the opposite, in fact. Not only do I want you to write it, I am prepared to give you additional information to include in it and to make sure it is taken up by every news medium in this country. I can guarantee, you will make the front page of every newspaper in the land. You will most definitely trend on Twitter.'

Stoeckler was stunned into silence and sat down, heavily, on the sofa.

'Wh…wh…what additional information? I won't be responsible for disseminating your right wing, reactionary, fascist bullshit!' he blurted out.

Mycroft inhaled slowly then sighed, with rapidly diminishing patience.

'I will give you the identity of one of the team who have been tracking you across Europe, complete with a photographic image of that person, I will give you a bona fide quotable source and I will even give you her real name.'

This time, Patrick Stoeckler was stunned into silence, much to Mycroft's relief. The young man's pathetic posturing really was beginning to get on his nerves.

ooOoo


	15. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Following a further, quite brief, discussion with Patrick Stoeckler about the article he was to write, Mycroft left the safe house. As he relaxed back into the comfortable leather upholstery of the staff car, he took out his mobile phone and dialled Molly's number.

'Hello, Mycroft, thank you for calling,' Molly greeted him.

'How is he?' he asked, simply, his brow furrowing with concern for his brother.

'Hard to say,' Molly replied. 'Last night, he had a bit of a meltdown but it seemed to help because he slept quite well, although he was a bit restless and mumbled a lot. He seemed quite rational this morning but I suspect that's the way it goes, in these situations – good days and bad days. He was quite adamant that I go to work. He said he didn't want to be babysat.'

'So is he at home?'

'He was when I left. Marie stayed the night and helped me with the boys. She was going to take William to school then go home. Sherlock was still in bed when I left, at eight-thirty this morning.'

Mycroft processed this information then spoke again.

'I'm on my way to see him. There's something I'd like him to do. I think it will help him come to terms with what's happened and it will certainly give him an outlet for his anger towards that woman.'

'Actually, Mycroft, I have something in mind on that score, too,' Molly put in. She went on to explain her idea. Mycroft listened intently, his admiration for Molly, already high, becoming further exalted the more she elaborated. When she finished her exposition, there was a protracted hiatus in the conversation.

'Mycroft, are you still there?' she asked.

'My most sincere apologies, Molly dear, I am indeed still here. I am simply rendered speechless, in awe of you. You really are most remarkable!'

Molly blushed, quite taken aback by such high praise from Sherlock's brother.

'But, I must advise you, there is a time constraint. The Ambassador has agreed to delay the woman's repatriation for one week so, whatever you intend to do in order to carry out your plan, it must be completed by next Wednesday evening, at the latest.'

Molly was grateful for that information. It gave a greater urgency to her schedule. She would need all the help she could get, which included calling in John Watson and enlisting the co-operation of Greg Lestrade.

'Thank you for that, Mycroft. If a week is all we have, it will just have to be enough,' she declared, defiantly.

'If I can help, in any way, please don't hesitate to ask,' Mycroft offered and she assured him she would come to him, if necessary. The call ended.

ooOoo

As Mycroft's car drew up outside the building where Sherlock and Molly lived, the driver jumped out to open the door for his esteemed passenger, who approached the house and pressed the doorbell. After a short pause, the lock buzzed and Mycroft pushed the door open and entered the building. The inner door to the flat was already open, so he walked into the hall and removed his shoes before proceeding to the sitting room. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, in his PJ bottoms, t-shirt and dressing gown. The kettle was already on.

Mycroft sat in the arm chair and, presently, Sherlock came through with a tea tray. He sat on the sofa and went through the ritual of pouring two cups. Passing one to his brother, he leaned back against the cushions with his own.

'Mycroft,' he began, rubbing at his headache with his free hand, 'whatever you have to say to me, please, just get it over with.'

'I'm not here to give you a lecture, Sherlock. I'm not your father, remember? Your hacking of my department's network is a subject we don't need to discuss, especially as we both know it will never happen again. Thank you, however, for taking part in that impromptu security check on our intruder software. I will be sending a full report to the suppliers, with commendations for the efficiency of the new adaptations.' Mycroft smiled, not his lizard smile, but a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes and softened his sharp features.

Even Sherlock had to give a half smile for that dastardly piece of manoeuvring.

'No, I'm here for entirely different reasons. Firstly, to see how you are.'

Mycroft waited for Sherlock to respond to that indirect enquiry. He detected a very slight shrugging of the shoulders and took that as his answer.

'Secondly, I have your phone. Our tech people have copied both the videos and the email to which they were attached. They didn't delete them. Would you like me to do that?'

Sherlock thought for a moment then shook his head. He would do that himself.

Mycroft took the phone from his pocket and handed it to his brother, who put it in down on the coffee table.

'And, thirdly, I've come to ask you to meet with someone…'

Sherlock pulled a face and held up a hand, in a gesture of refusal.

'No, Mycroft, I am not talking to any rape counsellor. Not a chance.'

'No, no, Sherlock, you misunderstand. I want you to talk to Patrick Stoeckler.'

ooOoo

Molly took the opportunity, during her morning coffee break, to ring Greg Lestrade. She hadn't seen him for a week or two, so they spent the first few minutes exchanging greetings and catching up. Then she got down to the main purpose of her call.

'Greg, these Warm Cases that Sherlock looks at,' the term Warm Cases having been coined by John Watson to describe the cases that were still active but no one was actually investigating them. These were the cases that Sherlock tended to be given, to ease the log jam and improve the conviction rate.

'Are some of them Missing Persons?'

'Yes, some of them, why do you ask?' Lestrade answered.

'So Sherlock has clearance to access the National Missing Persons Database?' she went on.

'Yes, he does but only if he is working on a case for us. Otherwise, he has to make an application, like any other private citizen. Where are you going with this, Moll?'

'Greg, we need to take a look at the NMPD rather urgently. We have less than five days to identify a missing person and find their close relatives. It is vitally important that we have that access and I suspect that, going through usual channels will just take too long. So, I'm asking you, Greg, to make an exception, just this once, and let Sherlock use his clearance.'

'Why has he got you doing his dirty work for him, Molly? Does he think I'm more likely to say yes to you?

Molly could hear the annoyance in the DI's voice. She bit the bullet and explained about what had happened to Sherlock and why she needed to identify this particular missing person. Greg was horrified by what he heard but then instantly agreed that Sherlock could, indeed, use his clearance to look for the person in question.

'And, Greg, if he isn't able to do it himself, could John do it for him?'

The DI had to give this a few seconds' consideration but then agreed, unreservedly, that he could.

'Anything for a mate, Molly – well, almost anything, I still value my job, you know,' Lestrade quipped. 'And, Molly, give him my best, will you? And let me know if there is anything else I can do. We have an absolutely top class Rape Unit, here. When he's ready to press charges, I can guarantee, he will get the best possible support.'

Molly thanked him profusely and then hung up. She didn't know when or even if Sherlock would be ready to take that step. She hoped that it would be soon but that was up to him and, right now, even he couldn't answer that question.

Her coffee break was over. She would have to ring John Watson at lunch time. She put her phone back in her pocket and returned to work.

ooOoo

'I don't know if I can do that,' Sherlock replied, after Mycroft had explained the role Patrick Stoeckler was to play in his plan to bring Irene Adler to justice. His face, pale at the best of times, had grown even paler and decidedly drawn during the preceding few minutes. Mycroft could see the effect his suggestion was having on his brother and it filled him with compassion for his sibling's distress but also anger toward the architect of that distress.

'You don't have to talk about the attack, just the manner in which she approached you and the story she gave in order to persuade you to help her.'

'I understand what you are asking, Mycroft, and I can see how important my contribution is, in that I am not employed by any government organisation, so not bound by the Official Secrets Act, I have first-hand knowledge of her true identity and I have a recent image of her, on my phone – placed there by her. It is a perfect plan and I'm sure it will work.'

He rubbed again at his headache, closing his eyes and moving his head from side to side, to try to alleviate the tension building in his neck and shoulders. He hated himself for being so weak but it was just too soon, too fresh in his memory, too painful to even think about, let alone to relate to a complete stranger, how she had duped him and then beaten him – for a second time. Her taunting words were playing, in his head,

'Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice, shame on you.'

'It doesn't have to be today or even tomorrow. We have a week – six days, to be precise, since we need to make the printing deadlines of all the major newspapers. Your input would make all the difference between an unsubstantiated allegation from a known conspiracy theorist and a major embarrassment for the US government. And her photograph, along with her real name, out in the public domain, would put an end to her career in covert operations. She would be of no further use to the CIA.'

Mycroft moved to sit beside him, on the sofa, and put an encouraging hand on his shoulder.

'Please, don't dismiss the idea. I believe you can do this, Sherlock. I have the greatest faith in you. And it would be a sweet revenge.'

Sherlock could not deny the veracity of his brother's words. He knew he had to do this – just not today. He offered Mycroft a trembling hand, and felt it grasped and squeezed by the elder Holmes.

'Good man,' Mycroft muttered, with an unaccustomed catch in his throat. Being a big brother was sometimes rewarding, occasionally amusing, often frustrating and frequently annoying but it was never to be taken lightly and always a job for life.

ooOoo

Lunch time could not come soon enough for Molly. She just hoped it was John's lunch break, too. As luck would have it, it was, and he answered her call almost at once.

'Hello, Molls, how are things?' was his opening sentence. He was feeling extremely guilty about not ringing, as he had promised, but it had been one of those days, at St Mary's, with barely a moment to himself. Molly gave him a progress report and acknowledged his offer of assistance, should Sherlock need it.

'Well, actually, John, that's what I'm calling about. There is a way you could help.' She then went on to explain her plan for bringing Irene Adler down.

John listened with growing interest and a sort of grim delight.

'Actually, Molly, I think I can help more than you think. I have a vital piece of information which could just nail this plan for you.'

When he told her what he knew, her eyes lit up.

'Oh, my goodness, John, that could be absolutely crucial. But you need to make a statement to that effect. Will you speak to Greg Lestrade about that?'

John was more than happy to do that.

'I'll ring him as soon as I hang up from you. And, Molly, I have some leave due. If I can arrange it at such short notice, I could be at your disposal from tomorrow morning.'

Molly thanked him and hung up. John's revelation had given her greater confidence in the likelihood of this plan succeeding. But the next part was entirely down to her. She cut her lunch break short in order to return to her desk and submit an application to retrieve some tissue samples from the mortuary store. She had deposited those samples herself and she knew that, as they pertained to an unsolved murder, they would still be there.

The body they belonged to would be in deep frozen storage at the Westminster Public Mortuary, an unclaimed corpse, the tragic by-product of a ruthless plot. There was more than one victim in need of justice in this case. Molly intended to fix that for both of them.

ooOoo


	16. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Edhla, for her birthday, because 'they' forgot! Shame on them! Happy **st birthday on Sunday, E!**

**Chapter Fifteen**

'That's her', Sherlock declared.

John, standing at his shoulder, peering at the laptop screen displaying the entry on the National Missing Persons Database, leaned in to get a better view of the photograph and the information listed there.

'Are you sure?' he asked, not because he doubted Sherlock's word but because he could hardly dare to hope their search had been successful.

They had been at this for hours, for days, in fact. Who knew there were so many people reported missing in the UK every day? In the year that they were looking at, the figure was an average of 550 per day, in the United Kingdom alone. And, apparently, Christmas was a bit of a hot spot for people dropping off the edge of the world, into oblivion.

They had been able to narrow down their search, to some extent, by providing the database with the details that best described their quarry. Gender and age, height and weight, vital statistics, hair and eye colouring, distinguishing marks could all be selected and programmed in. That had reduced the numbers considerably but, for the time frame they were looking at, they still had well over a hundred women still in the running.

It would have helped if they had known exactly when the victim was taken. They knew when she died, from the original post mortem report that Molly had written, after completing the PM itself. She had died between ten a.m. and two p.m. on December 24th. They knew how she died – multiple blunt instrument traumas to the head. What they didn't know was how long she was held before she was killed. Sherlock chose, arbitrarily, a seven day window, beginning on December 17th. He imagined her captors would not relish keeping her longer than that.

They had no idea from where she was taken. The chances of finding the right type within the London area was quite remote so they had to assume she could have been taken from just about anywhere in the UK.

'What if it wasn't even the UK?' John had asked. 'She could be European'.

'Yes, she could,' Sherlock agreed, 'but then they would have the added complication of smuggling her across a border. I think, for now, we must assume she was sourced from within the UK. We'll consider other possibilities if we have to.'

It was helping Sherlock a lot, having something to occupy his mind, a puzzle to solve. The added bonus that he was finding evidence that might convict Irene Adler of a serious crime, well, that helped, too. For John and for Molly, there was the extra incentive of giving a nameless woman back her identity and a tortured family the opportunity to mourn.

Having identified their target group, the next step was to contact the relevant police forces and request their case files. Greg Lestrade had been happy to lend a hand with this. He had even given them the use of two of his rooky PC's, to contact the various Officers in Charge and obtain the files in question, leaving John and Sherlock with the task of painstakingly going through all the information in these files, looking for anything that would point to one individual as being the one they sought.

The little room off the Black Museum was way too small for four people to work in, without getting under one another's feet and on one another's nerves, so the DI had made a larger room, on the second floor, available to them and kitted it out with desks, chairs, phones, computer terminals and a coffee machine.

The work had been detailed and intense. It had required one hundred percent concentration for one hundred percent of the time, so as not to miss a single clue that might be that one vital pointer. When it came, it had been so small and yet so significant.

Isabelle Galbraith, from Cromarty, in the Scottish Highlands, had been reported missing by her brother on Monday, December 21st, after she failed to turn up for work. The family had been trying to reach her since Friday night, when she didn't make her regular weekend call to her mother, in Helmsdale, Sutherland, Scotland. When he reported her missing, her brother had happened to mention to the local police in Cromarty that his sister, a peripatetic music teacher, in Inverness, had ambitions to become an actress and that, when they had spoken the week before, she had been terribly excited about a call she had received to attend an audition. She had responded to an add in a national newspaper and sent a photo, as requested, of herself in a bikini.

'It wasn't a big part,' the brother had explained,' in fact, it was just as a body double for the lead actress but it was for a proper film, with a cinema release, so she was convinced it would be her big break.'

It was the phrase 'body double' that caught Sherlock's eye and then he took a closer look at the photograph and the description in the Missing Persons Database profile – thirty-two, slim build, long dark hair, blue eyes, 1.6 metres tall. The time frame, the cover story, it all fitted. Yes, he was sure this was her – the woman he had identified as Irene Adler, that night before Christmas, all those years ago.

'We need DNA from a close relative, to be certain, though,' John cautioned.

Molly had already extracted the victim's DNA from the tissue samples she had retrieved from storage. If they could obtain some DNA from the brother or one of the parents, they could make a comparison, test for a match. John picked up the phone and dialled Greg Lestrade's internal number. Within minutes, the DI had been on to the police in Sutherland and a SOCO had been dispatched to contact the family and arrange for a DNA sample to be obtained and analysed. Now, they just had to wait.

ooOoo

Sherlock's meeting with Patrick Stoeckler had taken place two days before. He had taken time out from the search for the identity of Irene's body double, while the plods were busy rounding up the case files. Mycroft had collected him from New Scotland Yard and accompanied him to the safe house. The older Holmes brother was rather intrigued by how these two men might react to one another, since they had a certain type of temperament in common. Would they get on like a house on fire or shoot on sight? Mycroft could hardly wait to find out.

Sherlock was seated on the sofa and Mycroft in an arm chair, when Patrick Stoeckler entered the room. He looked from one brother to the other then went to sit in the only empty seat left in the room, the other arm chair. He dropped down into the chair and threw one leg, casually, over the arm.

'So this is your bona fide quotable source, is it?' he asked Mycroft, whilst giving Sherlock the once-over, with a rather disparaging expression on his face. Sherlock, meanwhile, was scanning him in return, being sure to keep his own expression bland.

'Alright then, boykie, what have you got for me?' he asked, using the familiar Afrikaans term for 'man', a remnant of his early life in South Africa, even though his accent no longer bore a trace of his original nationality.

'Do you still play cricket?' Sherlock asked.

'What?' was the other man's somewhat confused reply.

'I asked you if you still played cricket' Sherlock repeated, slowly, enunciating every syllable.

'No, not for years, not that it's any of your fucking business.'

'Pity. Left-arm spin bowlers are in great demand. You could probably make money as a training partner, if nothing else.'

Stoeckler looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again, his brow wrinkled with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion.

'OK, what the fuck is going on here?' he barked, at last. 'Who have you been talking to?'

'Please excuse my brother, Mr Stoeckler, he does like to have his little games. Sherlock, there is a time constraint, remember.'

Sherlock sighed. He would have loved to share the rest of his deduction concerning the other man's life history but he could see that the cricket reference had struck the bull's-eye already, so there was no need. He turned to the journalist and, with a charming smile, began to relate to him the details of his recent dealings with Irene Adler, from the time he received her text, right up to but not including the moment she stabbed him with the hypodermic – and excluding all references to any personal details, most especially their previous liaison. He did, however, tell him about rescuing her from the radical Islamists in Karachi, and gave him her real name.

Stoeckler was shocked to learn that Irene had been following him in all those places, where he had gone to meet the subjects for his article. Sherlock was mildly astonished that the man had been so unobservant as not to notice the same woman in four different locations, in four different countries, especially someone with Irene's distinctive appearance.

'So, what spooked you, in Lausanne?' he asked, just out of curiosity.

'The big, butch American. I had set up a meet with one of my whistle-blowers but I turned up an hour early. I was going to have breakfast in the restaurant prior to doing the interview, but I saw him coming out of the hotel. I recognised him from the airport in Sardinia. I knew that could be no coincidence.'

Ah well, not completely unobservant, just not interested in women, thought Sherlock.

'Well, Mr Stoeckler, I think you have everything you need to complete your article, don't you?' Mycroft interjected. He reached out and offered Stoeckler an A4 envelope, which the other man took, tentatively.

'That is a photograph of the lady in question, the modern day Mata Hari. There is a hard copy and also a memory stick. You may submit it, with your article.'

Stoeckler took the photograph out and looked at it, with an exclamation of surprise.

'Fuck me, is that her? She was the woman I was supposed to interview, in Lausanne. She was my contact!'

'Then you had a very lucky escape. Had you kept that appointment, it would almost certainly have been your last. You would have disappeared, never to be heard of again, I shouldn't wonder.'

Mycroft rose from his seat and offered his hand to the freedom of speech activist, much to the other man's surprise and embarrassment, in view of his previous rudeness. He, at least, had the good grace to look chagrined. Sherlock stood, also, but did not offer his hand. Stoeckler eyed him, suspiciously.

'How did you know I was a left-arm spin bowler?' he asked.

'I didn't know, I saw,' Sherlock replied, and left.

ooOoo

When the result of the DNA analysis, from Isabelle Galbraith's brother's sample, arrived at the incident room in New Scotland Yard, John and Sherlock were scanning some of the other Missing Person case files, just in case Isabelle was not their woman. They left the two PC's checking out the last few details and caught a cab to St Bart's. They both wanted to be there when Molly compared the two profiles. Sherlock strode through the hospital corridors, remembering the last time he had passed this way, the day Irene had sobbed into his shirt, the day before she had…..

Molly looked up and smiled as the two men entered the lab though the heavy, double fire doors, John brandishing the printout of the analysis. Molly took the sheet of paper and looked at it closely.

'I'm not a geneticist,' she stated, shaking her head. 'We need an expert to take a look at this.' She picked up her desk phone and dialled an internal extension. When the call was answered, she spoke briefly to the other person then hung up. She looked at her two visitors – John full of nervous anticipation, Sherlock detached and dispassionate. But she knew how much this meant to him, if they were right and the two profiles matched.

'He's coming down to have a look,' she announced, simply. 'Would you two like a coffee?'

'Yes, please, black, two sugars,' Sherlock replied and then smiled – a genuine smile.

By the time the geneticist arrived, all three were sipping mugs of steaming coffee, sitting on the high stools, dotted around the Path Lab. Dr Gordon took both printouts and laid them out , one above the other, on the counter where three microscopes stood in a row, looking rather like a Marcel Duchamp art installation. He studied them carefully, drawing circles round individual features on both analyses. After approximately two minutes, during which time Molly scarcely dared to breathe, he turned to her and said,

'Definitely a match. Close relatives, probably siblings.'

Molly leaped at the startled man and gave him a huge hug, squealing with delight, as she did so.

'Well,' gasped Dr Gordon, 'if that's the response I get, you can invite me down here, to do comparisons, any time you like.'

ooOoo

**Special thanks to mrspencil for providing the details of Isabelle Galbraith's biography, in her wonderful poem 'Robbed'. Find it in her collection of poems entitled 'Baker Street re Verse' on this fanfic site.**


	17. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

The sky was grey and overcast, the early morning light dulled by the cloud cover, when the black staff car drew up at Terminal Five, Heathrow Airport. The uniformed driver jumped out and came round to open the back door on the passenger side, offering his hand to assist the elegant lady to step from the car. Irene Adler stood upright and turned to give the country of her birth a final glance.

She had no great love for her Motherland so it was not an emotional wrench, to be leaving it so soon. She had little greater love for her adopted country, the USA, but she was thankful that they offered her freedom and security. Her escort, no less a personage than the American Ambassador to London, himself. He had been her host for the past week.

She wasn't exactly sure why she had remained here, when the other members of the team had returned to the US so soon after the mission had been aborted. She imagined it had something to do with the fact that, by now, Mycroft Holmes would know that she was not dead, as he supposed, but very much alive and working for the CIA. She was aware that he would be pretty put out to learn that his own brother had foiled the plot to get rid of her, once and for all, in Karachi. He probably wasn't too happy that she had tricked Sherlock into finding the location of their target and then rather taken advantage of him. But she also knew that, so long as she stayed in the Embassy, he could not touch her. She was officially on American soil.

The Ambassador had come to see her off and, she assumed, to ensure that the British Secret Service could not make any last minute attempt to detain her. He probably wanted to make sure she left, she had no doubt. He had not enjoyed her company at the Embassy, over the preceding week, and would be more than happy to see the back of her. In his opinion, she was an embarrassment and an inconvenience. But she was also a valuable asset, so he had to put up with her and treat her with a certain amount of respect.

At five o'clock in the morning, even in a busy twenty four hour airport like Heathrow, it was quiet in Terminal Five. The choice of the time for her departure had been deliberate. The fewer people around, to witness her leave-taking, the better – whether or not they knew who she was. The Ambassador and his two Diplomatic Protection officers escorted her through the deserted corridors to the private departure lounge, her luggage carried by the driver. The party was greeted, in the lounge, by the airport staff. Irene was shown to a seat and her luggage taken away, to be loaded onto the plane. She was offered tea or coffee, which she declined. She was not a morning person and her digestive system was protesting at the early hour, by rejecting food of any kind.

The two Protection officers stood by the door which led back to the airport terminal. She wondered whether that was to stop others from entering or her from exiting. She had no desire to leave via any route, other than to the plane.

Irene had been sitting in the departure lounge for about ten minutes when that door opened. The two officers spoke with the person at the door, then turned to the Ambassador and spoke with him, briefly, before one of them left the lounge. Irene paid the incident little heed. She glanced at her watch and wondered how much longer it would be before she could board the plane. She was travelling First Class and looking forward to a good sleep.

When the door opened again, she glanced up and was surprised to see Mycroft Holmes enter. What on earth was that odious man doing here? Surely, he realised that he had no jurisdiction over her? Not only was she now a US citizen but she was a member of that country's security service. He could not touch her. Had he come to wish her 'Bon Voyage'? A moment later, she was still more surprised to see Sherlock Holmes enter, behind his brother, followed by a small, rather nondescript young woman – one of Mycroft's minions, she imagined – with long, chestnut hair, held off her face by an Alice band.

Why would Sherlock want to be here? She had to hand it to him, having the front to face her, after what she had put him through. Did the man have no pride left? She wondered whether he had told his brother everything that had happened between them. Had he admitted that not only had she tricked him into helping her but also taken complete advantage of him? Maybe his brother made him come. Was this his punishment for misappropriating government facilities? Either way, it was of no concern to her.

All three of the newcomers glanced in her direction but the two men soon turned their attention to the Ambassador, exchanging greetings and shaking hands. The woman, however, continued to gaze at Irene with a strange expression – a mixture of curiosity and dismissiveness – which, frankly, Irene found rather offensive. Who did this drab little woman think she was, to stare at her like that? Irene adjusted her position on the chair and turned her head, to look away from the new arrivals.

Their conversation seemed to go on for quite some time, not in whispers but low voices, too quiet for her to hear the words. She was very slightly curious as to why they had bothered to come but not enough to make any concerted effort to listen in to their verbal exchange. There was nothing they could do to stop her leaving, she was sure of that.

Having spoken to the Ambassador, Mycroft Holmes walked across the lounge and stood a short distance from Irene, resting both hands on the handle of his absurd umbrella. Why did he insist on carrying that umbrella everywhere he went, even indoors?

'Good morning, Miss Adler, it has been some time,' Mycroft greeted her.

'Mr Holmes,' she replied, inclining her head.

'Do you mind if we sit?' he asked, always the gentleman. She made a small movement of acquiescence, with her head, and he glanced over at Sherlock and the woman, who crossed the floor, and they all sat down, on the chairs, opposite her. She studied the younger Holmes' face. He was controlling his features well, to maintain a lack of expression, but she could see by the strain in his eyes that this was costing him dear. His hands, placed in his lap, the fingers loosely linked together, trembled very slightly. So, he probably wasn't here out of choice. Could his brother really make him do something he was clearly finding so difficult? They had a strange relationship, those two. They seemed to enjoy belittling one another. So it seemed like the sort of thing Mycroft might do.

The woman sitting next to Sherlock had noticed his trembling hands, too, and quite unexpectedly, she reached across and slipped her hand into his. Irene watched as their fingers plaited together, as natural as breathing. For the first time, Irene really looked at the other woman, who returned her stare with a steady gaze from soft, brown eyes.

'Oh, you must be the famous Molly,' Irene remarked, her face expressing this sudden realisation.

'I am Molly, yes, but I wouldn't say I'm famous,' Molly replied.

'Well, I've heard so much about you,' Irene explained. 'I must say, though, you do surprise me. I expected….'

'Yes?' Molly asked, politely.

'Something more….'

'More what?' Molly enquired.

'Well, you know, just more,' Irene concluded, with a smile. She looked from one to the other of the Holmes' brothers, with a curious smirk on her lips.

'Well, to what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen – and lady; she added, as an afterthought. 'Have you come to see me off?'

'Not exactly,' Mycroft began. 'Actually, we've brought you something.'

'Oh, a parting gift!' Irene exclaimed, with mock delight. 'How very sweet of you both!'

Mycroft gave a soft, humourless chuckle, shaking his head, very slowly, then replied,

'We thought you might like to see the morning's headlines. Molly, if you wouldn't mind?'

He looked toward Molly, who reached into her hand bag and took out a sheaf of folded sheets of newspaper. She extended her arm, offering them to Irene, who was staring at the bundle with a look of amusement on her face. Rather than taking the sheaf of paper, she folded her arms and, putting her head on one side, said,

'Why would I be interested in the morning's headlines?' curious but not yet sensing anything untoward.

Molly continued to hold out the papers, until Sherlock reached across, with his free hand and took them from her, handing them on to Mycroft, instead.

'Because you feature quite heavily in them,' Mycroft informed her, offering the sheaf to her, himself.

Her expression slowly morphed to one of disbelief. She reached out and snatched the sheaf from Mycroft's hand, unfolded the papers and looked at the first one. A large copy of her image was displayed under the banner headline:

'Modern Mata Hari in Secret Snatch Scandal'

Irene stared in amazement at her photograph, her mouth open but no sounds coming out. Mycroft inclined forward, so that he could see the image, too.

'Oh, that's the Sun. I must apologies for the dreadful headline. They do love alliteration in that particular publication. If you look further down the bundle, the Times and the Guardian are far less cheesy, though equally sensational, in their own way.'

Irene flicked through one or two of the other front pages then looked back at Mycroft, with a haughty laugh.

'You can't do this!'' she scoffed. 'I'm immune!'

'Not any more, dear lady. Look around,' came the reply.

She did look around and realised that, apart from the airport staff, there was no one else in the room. The Ambassador and his body guards had gone.

'What's happening? Where are they? What's going on?' she gasped.

'Your diplomatic immunity has been waived. The Ambassador has the authority to do that. Now that your cover is blown, your career in covert operations is over. You are no longer of any value to your adopted country,' Mycroft explained, patiently, almost kindly, as though speaking to a child.

'So what? You still have no reason to detain me,' she insisted.

'Oh, I'm afraid we do,' Mycroft replied, shaking his head, sympathetically.

'Sherlock, tell him!' she mewed, in her most seductive manner, reaching across to touch his knee. 'I didn't make you do anything you didn't want to, did I?'

Sherlock looked at her hand then at her face then spoke.

'What was the expression you used? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me? How appropriate, Irene, to your current circumstances.' He stood up and walked a short distance away from the seating area, then turned to face her again.

'The last time, you made the mistake of letting your heart rule your head, when you used my name as the pass word to unlock your phone. I told you then that sentiment was a defect found in the losing side. I freely admit, now, that I was wrong. That wasn't sentiment. It was compulsion - an irresistible impulse to act, regardless of the rationality of the motivation.' He took a few steps back toward her, so that he could look down into her startled eyes.

'Your plan had worked perfectly. You had what you came for – the location of your quarry. You had your exit strategy in place – incapacitate me and make your escape. You could have completed your mission and been gone before anyone could stop you. But you couldn't resist the temptation, could you?'

Irene rose to her feet and stared him in the face.

'You flatter yourself, Mr Holmes,' she hissed.

He walked around her, with a sneering expression.

'But you said it yourself, Irene. What was it now? Oh, yes, I remember - 'If only you knew how often I have imagined you, helpless on a bed. This is a dream come true.' – isn't that what you said? You just couldn't help yourself, could you?'

'So what do you intend to do, Mr Holmes? Charge me with rape? I'd like to see you put that before a jury!'

'Oh, no, Miss Adler.' It was Molly's voice. Irene looked round. The other woman had stood up and moved to Sherlock's side. She slipped her hand into his, again, and their fingers entwined.

'Well, not just yet, anyway.'

'What then?' Irene demanded. Molly moved her gaze to look past Irene's shoulder to the door through which they had all entered the room. Irene turned her head to follow that gaze and saw a distinguished-looking man with silver hair, enter the lounge, accompanied by an olive-skinned woman and two uniformed police officers. She was almost mesmerised, as she watched these people approach and stop in front of her.

'Miss Irene Adler?' the woman said.

'Yes?' she replied, still not sure of what exactly was happening.

'I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. You do not have to say anything but….'

As the woman's voice droned on, reading her rights, the two uniformed officers came to stand either side of her and took hold of her arms.

'What on earth are you talking about? Who am I supposed to have conspired to murder? Are you insane?' Irene almost shrieked.

'Her name was Isabelle Galbraith and I carried out her post mortem but, at the time, I thought she was you because Sherlock ID'd her as you,' Molly explained. 'Well, she has her own name back now and, soon, she'll have justice, too.'

Irene looked at her with disdain.

'I was wondering what he could possibly see in you. I might have guessed it would be something disgusting, like a shared interest in dead bodies,' she sneered.

'Well, be that as it may, Miss Adler, but it wasn't I who had to drug him to get him into bed,' Molly replied, with a condescending smile.

Irene stiffened and went to move toward Molly but was restrained by the police officers.

'Miss Adler, either you come willingly, or we will have to cuff you,' DS Donovan warned her.

'Take her away,' ordered DI Lestrade. The officers escorted Irene from the room, followed by Sally Donovan.

Molly turned, immediately, to Sherlock. She had felt his hand trembling throughout the encounter. Now the confrontation was over, he suddenly felt very cold and light-headed.

'Are you alright?' she asked, as she watched the colour drain from his cheeks.

'Come and sit down,' she insisted, pulling him toward the nearest chair. He sank into it and put is head in his hands. Molly put her arms around him and whispered,

'She's gone now. She can't touch you any more. And you were amazing - just amazing.'

Mycroft, who had risen from his seat when the police entered the room, signalled to one of the stewards and asked them to bring his brother a glass of water. He then turned to Lestrade,

'Excellent timing, Inspector. Might I ask when you intend interviewing her?'

'Just as soon as her solicitor arrives. I'm guessing she'll insist on one and I've no doubt she'll have a particular one in mind. Her sort usually does. Would you like to observe?'

'Most definitely. Wouldn't miss it for the world,' Mycroft replied, with a satisfied smile.

ooOoo


	18. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

The confrontation with Irene had been so much worse than he had imagined it could be – and he had imagined it to be bad enough. Just walking into the room and seeing her, sitting there, had caused his stomach to constrict and his body to break out in a cold sweat. She looked so smug, so self-assured. She really was just as much a psychopath as Moriarty.

He had planned what he would say, almost to the last word, because he wasn't sure how well his mind would be working when placed in such close proximity to his abuser. It put him in mind of the many times he was bullied at school and then forced, by his delusional house master, to shake hands with the bullies, all the while knowing that they were plotting yet another assault.

He had been determined to face her, though. Like falling off a horse, it was important to get straight back in the saddle and he did not want the next time they came face to face to be in a court of law. That could be months away and this was one demon that he wanted to exorcise as soon as possible. He was immeasurably grateful for the comforting presence of Molly. She had never met Irene – not the real one, at least – and he had been concerned that the former high class courtesan might belittle her. But Molly assured him that nothing the woman could say would be of any consequence, and he believed her.

Sitting opposite Irene had ramped up the stress considerably. He was so relieved that Mycroft opened the batting. He had concentrated on employing relaxation techniques, to slow his heart rate and get his breathing under control. Fortunately, her attention was taken by Molly, his brother and the front page headlines, giving him time to pull himself together. However, when she reached out and touched his knee, he was almost undone. His sensory memory hurled him back in time and the full horror of their last encounter exploded in his consciousness. It was all he could do not to physically recoil from her touch. It took a monumental effort. When he eventually spoke, he was relieved to find his voice was steady and strong.

Then he was able to stand up and move away, gaining a little respite from the extreme stress of the encounter. Recalling her own words and quoting them back to her had tipped him toward the edge but that was nothing by comparison to the jolt he felt when she taunted him with the prospect of a court appearance, raising the spectre of exposing himself to an aggressive defence counsel and a sceptical jury. But Molly was suddenly there, at his side, her cool hand in his, speaking up and goading Irene into a petulant bout of character assassination, before delivering the perfect put down.

From that point onward, Sherlock could feel himself begin to shut down. He was vaguely aware of the appearance of Lestrade and Sally Donovan but it was as though he were removed from the scene, looking on, just a spectator. As Irene was led from the room, he felt himself being pulled across the floor and pushed down into a chair. He was cold and light-headed. Some internal monologue told him he was going into shock and, in a logical, dispassionate way, it annotated all the symptoms that bore out that assertion. It had all been too much, too soon and he had not really been ready but it had to be done and, at least now, it was over.

Molly was next to him, her arms around him, speaking words of comfort, telling him he was alright, asking him to lie down. He was conscious but only barely. He had fainted a couple of times in his life – usually because of lack of food – but this was something different. His extremities were numb – hands, feet, face – as though all the blood had been withdrawn from them. He felt so cold and was beginning to shiver. Molly was rubbing his hands and cheeks. His breath was shallow and rapid - not a very efficient way of breathing, he knew.

'No, I don't want to lie down,' he insisted, leaning against the back rest, closing his eyes, trying to breathe deeply, slowly.

'I'm alright,' he muttered, beginning to feel intensely self-conscious and wishing he were anywhere but here. He hated himself for being weak but, at the same time, the detached voice in his head was telling him that this reaction was only to be expected.

'Mycroft, he needs a blanket!' Molly called out, urgently. One of the stewards reacted immediately and reached behind the desk, next to the departure gate, pulling out a bright orange thermal blanket, which he brought over and handed to Molly and she wrapped around the patient's shoulders.

'We have paramedics on duty. I'll ring them' the steward advised her.

'Yes, thank you, right away,' Molly agreed, sitting beside the stricken man, talking reassuringly. Mycroft and Lestrade looked on, feeling a little helpless but not wanting to interfere, having no medical expertise what so ever.

The paramedics were very quickly on the scene and brought with them a small portable tank of oxygen. With the mask in place, over his nose and mouth, Sherlock began to feel more himself. Molly's soothing voice, instructing him to slow his breathing and relax, was helping, too. The blanket was doing its work and he was getting warmer. But he just wanted to get out of this place, away from where so many prying eyes were upon him. He wanted to go home.

He tried to pull the oxygen mask away from his face but Molly stopped his hand and said 'No' in the sort of voice she usually reserved for William, when he was pushing the boundaries a bit too hard. Meanwhile, the paramedics were busy checking his vital signs and taking a case history from Molly. She told them he had just had an emotional shock. They pointed out that he was a little dehydrated, too, and his blood pressure was low. They wanted to call an ambulance and have him checked out at the local hospital.

'I don't need a hospital,' Sherlock protested, weakly, trying once more to pull the mask off and stand up. Molly eased him back into the chair.

'Just sit still, with the mask on, for another five minutes, OK?' she insisted. He realised it was probably easier to do as he was told.

'It's alright; I can look after him at home. He's just had a nasty shock,' she explained to the paramedics.

Five minutes later, Sherlock, with a slightly better colour to his complexion, was sitting upright, sipping a large glass of water. The paramedics packed up their paraphernalia and took their leave. Molly gave the blanket back to the steward and thanked him for his help. Mycroft was sitting on the seat next to his brother, apologising for bringing him to confront Irene Adler.

'Mycroft, I came because I had to and because I wanted to. If neither of those conditioned had pertained, I wouldn't be here. You didn't make me do it. I'm glad I came. I'm glad I've seen her. It will never be that difficult again.'

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin smile.

'Very well, I'll stop feeling responsible. But let's get you home, before the morning traffic gets too bad.' It was still only six a.m., although it seemed so much later.

Greg Lestrade walked with them, back through the airport terminal, which was still remarkably quiet, to the waiting limousine, parked right outside the main doors. He shook hands with Sherlock and Mycroft and gave Molly a peck on each cheek, thanking them all for their assistance in apprehending Miss Adler. He then went to his own car, to drive back to New Scotland Yard.

Sherlock sat quietly in the back of the staff car, looking out of the window, half listening to the conversation between Molly and Mycroft but mostly thinking about something he had been avoiding all week – talking about what Irene had done to him. He knew that the longer he put it off, the harder it would be. And he did need to talk about it.

He had not been intimate with Molly for a whole week. It wasn't that they weren't accustomed to abstaining from physical intimacy. When he was working on a case, sex was usually off the menu. But that was abstention, this was avoidance. They had slept in the same bed, still curled around one another, but they hadn't even so much as kissed.

Physical expression was such an important part of their relationship; it had always felt so right. But, when Molly had happened to place her hand round the back of his neck, his stomach had clenched, he had grabbed her wrist and recoiled violently. They had both apologised and both felt guilty but neither of them were the ones to blame.

It was just so wrong that one nightmare encounter could over-shadow all their beautiful moments. He couldn't let that continue because then Irene would most certainly have won. Until Molly knew what Irene had done and made him do – the full story – it would always be a barrier between them. They both knew it. She would never push the issue – she was far too considerate for that. No, she was just waiting for him to be ready to talk. And now he was.

ooOoo

Having dropped Sherlock and Molly at their home, Mycroft went on to his office. His first priority was to ring the American Embassy, to thank his old friend for his co-operation.

'Oh, think nothing of it, Mycroft. I think you did us both a favour. I know we all have to do things we'd rather not, in the line of duty, but that woman seemed to enjoy her role of femme fatale a little too much. Obviously, as a US citizen, we will have to offer her diplomatic support, we will probably have to provide her with legal representation but, I do assure you, we won't interfere with your due process of law. Whatever your court decides, we won't challenge it.'

'Well, Austin, we wouldn't object if you applied for her to serve her sentence in a US prison,' Mycroft suggested, causing the Ambassador to chuckle.

'No, I don't suppose you would!' he replied.

ooOoo

Mycroft took his seat in the observation room at New Scotland Yard. DS Donovan positioned the microphone, on the desk in front of him, so that he could direct the questioning, and showed him how to hold down the button, in order to be heard by the officers in the interviewing room. He had a considerable amount of experience, directing interrogations, so this was hardly necessary but it was protocol, so both parties went through the motions of the procedure. When the DS left, Mycroft relaxed back into his seat, waiting for the show to begin.

He watched on the large screen, as Irene Adler was ushered into the Interview Room and took a seat, along with her legal representative, provided by the US Embassy. She looked rather worse for wear, having risen very early after far too little sleep, expecting to be able to catch up on the plane, returning to her adopted country. Her expression was one of annoyance. She had no idea what was about to happen but she was sure that the Met police would not be able to make a case against her. This was just an inconvenience, something to be tolerated.

After a further few moments, Di Lestrade and DS Donovan came into the room, took their seats and went through the ritual of setting up the tape recorder, introducing those present and recording the start time of the interview. These formalities over, Sally Donovan began the interrogation.

ooOoo

When Molly and Sherlock arrived back home, Marie was already up, having stayed over, so that the two boys would be cared for when their parents left to go to the airport. Molly insisted Sherlock go straight to the bedroom to rest. He didn't offer any arguments. He was feeling completely drained and, much as he loved his time with the boys in the mornings, he knew he needed to lie down before he fell down. Molly filled Marie in on what had happened at the airport, whilst they shared a pot of tea, then they got the boys up and ready for their day.

'I'm going to take Freddie to Nursery, even though I've taken a day's leave,' Molly explained to the nanny, as they gave the boys breakfast. 'I want to spend some time with Sherlock, just the two of us.'

'Where is Daddy?' William asked.

'He's in bed, darling. He's not feeling well,' Molly explained.

'Can I go and see him, before I go to school?' the little boy asked, small crinkles showing between his eyebrows, making him look so much like Sherlock. Molly stroked her hand over the crown of his head, in a gesture of reassurance.

'Of course you can, babe. I think he would like that. Finish your breakfast first, though,' she replied.

As soon as William had finished eating his cereal, he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth then, coming back along the short corridor, he pushed open the door to his parents' bedroom. His father was lying on the bed, on top of the duvet, with his eyes closed. He had removed his jacket and shoes but was otherwise clothed. As the child approached the bed, quietly, Shelock opened his eyes and gave a tired smile, holding out his arm to invite his son onto the bed. William climbed up and nestled into his father's side.

'How are you feeling, Daddy?' he asked.

'I'm OK, William, just really tired.'

'Just really tired?' he asked, looking sceptical.

'Well, not _just_ really tired. I've had a lot of things on my mind as well but nothing you should be worried about,' Sherlock explained.

'You know, Daddy, if anything is bothering you, you know you can always tell me, don't you?' William assured him, solemnly.

Sherlock smiled and hugged the little chap to him, both touched and amused at hearing his own words repeated back to him by his five year old.

'I know I can, William, and thank you for being there for me. It really means a lot. But, honestly, I'm OK. I've just got to work though some stuff but Mummy and Uncle Mycroft are helping me and Uncle John, too. Everything will be OK.'

They both heard Molly calling for William to come and get his coat on for school, so. With a hug and a kiss, they said goodbye.

'You go to sleep, Daddy, and I'll see you later, OK?'

'Yes, of course, and you have a good day,' Sherlock replied and sent his son on his way.

Molly appeared at the bedroom door a moment later and came over to the bed, reaching down to stroke his head, as she had with William, not long before.

'I'm taking Freddie to Nursery and then I'll be back. We'll have the whole day, just the two of us.'

He smiled and took her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it.

'We need to talk,' he replied. She nodded, kissed him on the temple and left.

ooOoo

'Miss Adler, can you tell me where you were on the night in question,' Sally Donovan asked, having already established the day and the date of Irene's first so-called demise.

'Good lord, that was six years ago! How do you expect me to remember that?'

'Well, it was Christmas Eve, so a significant day.'

'And can you remember where you were on Christmas Eve, six years ago?'

'It is your whereabouts that are of interest, Miss Adler, not mine. So, I repeat the question. Can you tell me where you were that night?'

'I was probably out celebrating, like most people, I imagine.'

Sally looked at Irene without speaking for a few moments then picked up an evidence bag that had been lying on the table top since the interview began. She turned the bag over so that its contents could be seen through the transparent side of the bag. It was a camera phone.

'Do you recognise this phone?' she asked. Irene pulled the bag towards her, to have a closer look but did not pick it up.

'It looks like a phone I used to own,' she answered.

'When did you own this phone?'

'I didn't say it was my phone. I said it looked like a phone I used to own.'

Then when did you own that phone, Miss Adler?'

'About six years ago.'

'And can you remember what happened to that phone?'

'Yes, it was taken from me.'

'Taken when?'

'On Christmas Eve, six years ago.'

'So, you remember what happened to your phone but you don't remember where you were?'

'I really loved that phone,' Irene replied, staring pointedly at the DS.

'Who took it from you?'

'I don't know. It was stolen.'

'So you didn't send it to anyone?'

'Send my phone to someone? Why on earth would I do that? Would you send your phone to someone?'

'We believe you sent your phone to a man named Sherlock Holmes.'

'Did he tell you that?'

'We have several witnesses who saw him find the phone.'

'Find it where, in a café, on a bus? Maybe it was him who stole it.'

'He found it in a box, on the mantelpiece, in his flat, Miss Adler.'

'Well, did any of these witnesses see me put it there? How do they know he didn't put it there himself and then just pretend to find it?'

'Have you remembered where you were that night?' Sally asked. 'Has the loss of your phone jogged your memory at all?'

'I was out with friends, at a club.'

'Who were these friends? And what was the name of the club?'

Mycroft looked at his watch. This was going to be a long session. He had to hand it to the Adler woman, she was very cool. She was not about to own up to anything. They would have to give her enough rope to hang herself but, so far, DS Donovan was doing a good job. She had already made the suspect change her story once. It was just a matter of time.

ooOoo

Sherlock was drifting in a doze when he heard Molly let herself back into the flat. He rolled over onto his side and then sat up, sliding up to the top of the bed, to lean his back against the head board, pulling his knees up to his chest. He realised this was a defensive position. Well, that was quite appropriate, under the circumstances.

It was some time before Molly came into the room and, when she did, she was carrying two mugs of tea. She put one on the bedside cabinet for him and carried the other round to her side of the bed, placing it on the other cabinet before climbing onto the bed to sit facing the headboard, facing him. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it, then let it go, to hug his knees. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and started to talk.

He told her how he had arrived at Baker Street that morning and gone in to talk to Mrs Hudson; how she had told him she was going out and warned him to be careful and how he had said he could take care of himself. He told her about hacking into the Government FaxRex software and finding out the 'stalker's' name; emailing PC Pearce, at the Black Museum, to get an address from Stoeckler's police record; phoning John and arranging for him to come over after work. He then went on to explain how he'd heard Irene turn on the shower; how he had decided to scan Stoeckler's image into the CCTV street surveillance system, then plotted him, around Ion Square Garden, in Hoxton; how he'd picked up his laptop and carried it into the bedroom to show her the results of his morning's work.

He could see the scene in his mind's eye – Irene at the window, putting on make-up with a hand mirror, her look of annoyance at his bursting in, her feigned ignorance of the name Patrick Stoeckler, her glee at seeing the plotted sightings – and he described it, just as he saw it.

'Then she got up and kissed me. I wasn't expecting it. I thought she had accepted that I was with you and she was just someone I used to know, a friend who needed a favour. It took me by surprise. I pushed her away. She said she just wanted to say thank you and I said the words alone would have been enough. I realised I was compromising myself by being in the bedroom with her so I turned to walk out and that's when she stabbed me with the hypodermic.'

His breath caught and he began to wring his hands. Molly reached out and put her hand over his. He grasped it and held it tightly.

'Just take your time,' she intoned, softly. 'I'm here and I'm listening and I'm not going anywhere, no matter how long it takes.'

He took a few deep, shuddering breaths and then went on to relate every harrowing detail of the assault. Molly listened, with a growing tightness in her chest, as he described his feelings of utter helplessness, revulsion and degradation; how he had tried to go to his Mind Palace in order to escape mentally what he could not avoid physically but that the effect of the drug made that impossible. He spoke about her verbal taunts and how she had used her phone to video part of the assault and told him how she would send it to him, as a memento of their time together.

So many times, during the account, he broke down, curling in upon himself, hugging his knees and rocking, reliving the ordeal as though it were happening all over again and Molly tried to console him, told him he could stop, he didn't need to go on but he was insistent. He needed to get it all out, get it over with, all in one go, because if he stopped now he might never be able to start again.

As he came to the end of the story, his shoulders dropped and he rested his head against the back board of the bed, wrung out and exhausted. He rubbed his face with his hands and exhaled slowly. Then he looked at her with eyes that asked just one question. Could she still love him, despite what she now knew? She moved up close to him, wrapped her arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder. He did the same to her and they clung together, each drawing strength and resolve from the other. They stayed like that for some time.

ooOoo

**This was a tough chapter to write. Dealing with the aftermath of a rape can often be as bad if not worse than the incident itself. I hope I did it justice.**

**Many thanks to all my followers and favouriters and especially my reviewers. You are amazing and I am so grateful to you all.**


	19. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM** **and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**A huge thank you to everyone who nominated my stories in the SAMFAs. I am chuffed to bits!**

**Chapter Eighteen**

'Where were you on New Year's Eve, that same year, Miss Adler?' Sally asked.

'You are inordinately interested in my social calendar, Detective Sergeant. Are you trying to tell me something?'

'It's my job to do the asking, Miss Adler, yours to do the telling. I'm asking you where you were on New Year's Eve, the week after you lost your phone.'

'I expect I was at a party somewhere. That's what I normally do on New Year's Eve.'

'We have two witness statements that say you were at Battersea Power Station, where you had arranged to meet one of them. You sent a car to pick the witness up.'

'Well, if your witness says that, I suppose it must be true. I mean, why would he lie?'

'I didn't say the witness was a male.'

'Is it a male?'

'The second witness saw the first being picked up by car, outside the flat where they live, and followed the car to the meeting place.'

'And would I be right in thinking that one of these witnesses is the person who claims I sent him my phone? And I expect the other is one of those who claim to have seen him finding my phone, on his mantelpiece. Has it occurred to you that these two men are plotting against me? Do you have any evidence to support their allegations?'

Mycroft inclined forward in his seat, depressed the button on the microphone and spoke, with an edge of boredom.

'Show her the CCTV footage.'

In the Interview Room, Sally Donovan turned to the PC standing by the door.

'Run the VT, please, Wallace.'

The PC pressed the 'Start' button on the DVD player and all eyes turned toward the TV screen on the wall, as it flickered into life.

The picture resolved into a view taken looking out from Battersea Power Station, over a broad expanse of dereliction to Chelsea Bridge in the back ground and, behind that, the Royal Hospital – home to the world-famous Chelsea Pensioners. As a decommissioned power station, it would be a prime target for vandals and scrap metal thieves alike but it was also a Grade Two Listed Building and an iconic landmark in London's skyline, so it was protected by a state of the art digital CCTV surveillance system. The image on the screen showed a shiny black limousine approaching, sending up spray from the deep puddles, left by the recent prolonged bout of icy winter rain. Snow rarely lay long on the ground in the capital.

As the car passed out of camera range, the view changed to one inside the former Turbine Hall, now just a darkened skeleton of steel and brickwork. The car pulled up and two people alighted – a woman, dressed in black and a man wearing jeans and a waxed jacket, the collar turned up against the chill wind. Various camera angles tracked them through the building until the man was directed to enter what had been the switching room – the nerve centre of the former cathedral of the kilowatt.

He walked through the building, turning to gaze at the banks of dials and switches which still adorned the walls, and stepped into the bands of daylight that barred the floor, from the tall, narrow strips of the Art Deco windows. Then he stopped. A new camera angle showed a rear view of the man, and the image of a woman walking out from the shadows, into the window light. At a signal from DS Donovan, the PC froze the image. The woman was, unmistakably, Irene Adler.

ooOoo

Molly lay on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching the sleeping face of Sherlock Holmes, which appeared relaxed and carefree in repose. She loved to watch him sleep.

In the aftermath of his harrowing account of Irene's assault upon his person, they had talked for a long time. The act of recounting had clearly been something of a cathartic experience for him. Bottling up all that pain and shame for a week had been a crippling burden so being able, finally, to pour it all out was a blessed release.

Lying face to face, on the bed, sharing thoughts and feelings, he had reached out and stroked her cheek, almost unconsciously, and then brushed her lips with his. She had combed her fingers through his hair and rubbed his jaw with her thumb.

And, still, they talked. And talked.

When she asked to see the video that Irene had sent, he asked,

'Why would you want to see it?' He wasn't appalled, just genuinely curious.

'Have you seen it?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'That's why I want to see it.'

He reached for his phone, on the night stand. He hadn't used it since Mycroft returned it. He had shut it off. Now, he turned it on. The battery was low but it powered up, nevertheless. She took the phone from his hand and opened the appropriate app, scrolling down through numerous emails until she found the one she sought and opened it. He watched her face as she clicked on the attachment, flicking off the sound, even as she did so. She watched the screen, dispassionately, for a minute and a half then closed the link. She moved her gaze to meet his, then pressed the 'Delete' icon before dropping the phone on the bed and leaning over to kiss him, just to the side of his mouth. He turned his head, fractionally, to receive the kiss on his lips and returned it. And, as they drew apart, he murmured,

'You didn't rape me, Molly, she did.'

'She needs to do something about that cellulite,' Molly commented. 'I could recommend a good treatment.'

For the first time in a week, Sherlock gave a burst of spontaneous laughter that rumbled in his chest, creased around his eyes and parted his lips, exposing his teeth. He pulled her to him and kissed her, fiercely. Relaxing back on the pillow, he held her against his chest and talked into her hair.

'Molly, when this is all over, let's go away.'

'Away, where?' she asked, rubbing her hand across his ribs, through his shirt.

'I want to go to Rio, see the Street Kids and check on how the Foundation is doing. We said we would go, didn't we? It's been a year and a half now. Let's take the boys, as soon as William breaks up from school for the summer. That would give us eight weeks. We could make it a sort of working holiday, what do you think?'

'I think that is an excellent idea. The boys would love it. And I would love to meet all those people you've told me about. Let's do it,' she agreed.

Now, as she watched him sleep, she knew he had turned a corner. He was looking ahead, planning, thinking beyond the present. No doubt there would be dark days but he had something to work towards, now, and once Irene Adler was 'dealt with' they could move on with their lives. Her thoughts turned to the Interview Room, at New Scotland Yard and she wondered how things were panning out there. As she cuddled close to Sherlock, he stirred in his sleep and wrapped his arm around her, making her feel safe and warm.

ooOoo

'That film could have been recorded any time. In fact, it could have not been recorded at all. It could be doctored,' Irene snapped, acerbically.

'Your legal representative may have the DVD subjected to any test you request, in order to verify that the film has not been altered in any way.'

It's ridiculous! Who keeps CCTV records for six years, for God's sake?'

'This system has movement sensor cameras. They only begin to film when they detect movement within their range. The recording is digital, so it can be compressed and stored indefinitely.'

Irene leaned back in her seat and pursed her lips. After a short pause, Sally Donovan spoke again.

'For what purpose did you meet with Dr John Watson, on that day, Miss Adler?'

'Oh, we're using names now, are we? I wanted my phone back. I thought he might get it for me.'

'Did Dr Watson have the phone?'

'No, his friend did.'

'So why didn't you just ask his friend for the phone?'

'I didn't want his friend to know where I was.'

'Why not?'

'That is none of your business, Detective Sergeant,' Irene sneered.

'Was it because Dr Watson's friend thought you were dead?'

'Why would he think I was dead?'

'Because you sent him your phone.'

'I didn't send him my phone, he stole it. I needed it back.'

Mycroft spoke into the microphone, again.

'Show her Exhibit 1A.'

Sally Donovan picked up another evidence bag from the table and turned it over, in front of Irene Adler, so that she could see the contents. It was a photo of Isabelle Galbraith, in a bikini, taken against a plain back ground. Although she was smiling at the camera and squinting into the light, it was clearly not a holiday snap. It looked more like a publicity photo or part of a model's portfolio. Isabelle had arranged the photo shoot specifically to get the shots required to apply for the body double role, as advertised in the national newspaper.

'Do you recognise that photograph?' Sally Donovan asked.

Irene glanced at the photo, feigning nonchalance but the tiny micro gestures in her body language told a different story.

'I've never seen that woman in my life,' she answered.

'That was not what I asked, Miss Adler. I asked if you had seen this photograph before.'

'Not that I can recall but I see lots of photographs, all the time. It's part of my job, looking at photos.'

'And which job would that be, Miss Adler?' Sally asked.

'That is classified information,' Irene replied, with a smirk.

'Next photo,' Mycroft directed.

Sally turned over the next bag and placed it in front of Irene, who looked at it and then turned away, looking aghast.

'Why are you showing me that? It's disgusting!'

It was a photo of Isabelle, taken by the medical photographer, Maria, before Molly began the post mortem examination. It clearly showed the terrible injuries to her face, which had rendered her unrecognisable. It seemed as though every facial bone had been shattered. The teeth, too, where either broken or missing. It was a truly horrendous image.

'This, Miss Adler, is the young woman in the first photograph, after she had been murdered and mutilated.'

'Well, I'm very sorry for her but I don't know who she is and I've never seen either her or her bloody photo in my life! Now take that disgusting image away and I want a break,' Irene all but screamed.

'Yes, this is a good time to break,' Mycroft advised, from the Observation Room.

'This interview is adjourned at….'Sally went on to record the time of the adjournment and then Irene left the room, with her legal representative, looking a great deal less self-assured than she had when she entered.

ooOoo

A few minutes late, DI Lestrade and DS Donovan joined Mycroft Holmes in the Observation Room, to watch the playback of the video taken during the interview of Irene Adler. A fourth person had joined them, Dr Allison Rhodes, a body language expert who was frequently called upon, by the Met Police, to observe interviews or even police press conferences and advise on the responses of target subjects. Following introductions, the video was set to play.

'Pause it there,' said the psychologist, almost at once. She pointed to Irene's eyes.

'She is lying, right there. Rewind two seconds, please,' she requested, and the VT was rewound the required amount. 'Now advance one frame at a time.' As the picture advanced very slowly, the doctor explained how Irene looked down to the right just before she spoke and then pointed out her defensive body posture, turning away, clasping her hands together, leaning away from the table.

'All these micro gestures are characteristic of someone who is playing for time, stalling, until they can think of a good answer.'

Sally Donovan noted the time signature in the bottom corner of the screen, so that they could find the spot again, in the future. They continued to watch the video, stopping and starting and making notes until they came to the presentation of the first photo.

'She recognised that person – either the person or the image – but she had definitely seen her before,' the doctor stated and then went on to explain what gave it away.

Moving on to the presentation of the post mortem photo, the doctor scrutinised Irene's reaction, frame by frame, then sat back and declared,

'She was genuinely shocked at the degree of facial mutilation. She was not expecting that.'

'So,' Mycroft began, by way of a summation, 'she recognised the victim, so she must have been involved, to some degree, in the selection process but she was not present when the victim was killed. Had she been, she would have known what state the body was in, when they had finished.'

'Then, we have to prove that she knew the girl was to be killed, in order to prove Conspiracy to Commit Murder,' DS Donovan mused.

'In deed, we do,' Mycroft replied, 'which is not going to be easy, unless we can break her down so that she confesses. The evidence we have is circumstantial, at best. I suspect we will need something more if we are to get this past the Crown Prosecution Service. They will never allow it to go to trial, otherwise.'

He looked around and smiled at the assembled crew.

'Well, early days! Let's have a cup of tea, shall we, and then move on to Round Two!'

ooOoo


	20. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

'Miss Adler, why did you send your phone to Sherlock Holmes?'

'I've already told you several times that I did not send my phone to Sherlock Holmes. He stole my phone.'

'How did he do that?'

'I don't know but he must have stolen it. How else would he have it?'

'If Mr Holmes stole your phone, why did you tell Dr Watson that you sent it to him?'

'I didn't tell him that. If he says I did, he's lying.'

'Run the VT, please, Wallace,' Sally said, once again, to the PC. The young policeman pressed the 'Play' button on the DVD player once more.

This piece of video film showed Irene Adler in Battersea Power Station, once again. It was the same camera angle as the end of the last piece of film but it had been zoomed in to close-up, so her face almost filled the middle of the screen. The HD quality ensured there was no pixilation.

There was no sound on the film but, as the image of Irene spoke, Sally read from a transcript.

_'He'd come after me.'_

_'Hm, I believe you.'_

_'DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.'_

_'I know what he likes. And I needed to disappear.'_

_'Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back so now I need your help.'_

Sally held up a hand and the PC 'paused' the DVD

'We had a lip reader transcribe your side of the conversation. Dr Watson confirms that it is accurate.'

For once, Irene was speechless.

'Miss Adler, I ask you again. Why did you send your phone to Sherlock Holmes?'

'Why are you asking when you clearly already know the answer?' Irene shrieked.

'I'd like you to say it for the tape, please, Miss Adler.'

'I sent him my phone for safekeeping.'

'Any other reason?'

'Such as?'

'You tell me.'

Irene thought long and hard about her next statement. She did not know how much they knew. Had Mycroft Holmes told them anything about the conversation between him, her and Sherlock, in his office, after the debacle with Flight 007?

Mycroft watched her face, on the big screen in the Observation Room and could read her thoughts just from her eye movements. He leant forward and said,

'Leave that for a moment. Ask her about the DNA records.'

'Miss Adler, what did you mean when you said, _'DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep'_?'

'I would have thought that was obvious.'

'Not to me.'

'I just meant that not everyone's DNA is on record so a DNA test is only useful if you have something to match it with, that's all.'

'Is your DNA on record, Miss Adler?'

I don't …know…Is it?'

DS Donovan picked up yet another evidence bag which contained a piece of A4 paper. She turned it over. It was a charge sheet but it looked quite dated.

'This is a charge sheet from 1998. It's for a Miss Irene Adleston. Does that name ring any bells?'

'You know it does,' Irene hissed.

The photograph on the charge sheet was of a much younger Irene and the charge was for soliciting. It was from the files of the Essex police.

'Can you please state, for the tape recording, how you recognise this name?'

'My original name was Irene Adleston. I changed it by Deed Poll.'

'I am showing the suspect a charge sheet, dated 3rd June 1998, for the offence of soliciting. It states that the suspect, Irene Adleston, now known as Irene Adler, was arrested in the Undercliff Gardens, Leigh on Sea, Essex, on that date, at eleven thirty in the evening. At the time of the arrest, the suspect was performing oral sex on a man, who was also arrested.'

Sally looked across the table at the other woman, whose eyes were smouldering with pure hatred. The last thing that Irene wanted to be confronted with was her eighteen year old self, a common whore, touting her wares round the Southend sea front. She had worked long and hard, moved Heaven and Earth, to take the girl out of Essex and now this scrawny bitch was shoving Essex straight back at the girl.

'And your point is, Sergeant?'

'At the time of your arrest, a DNA sample was taken and analysed and added to the National DNA Database.'

The two women continued to stare at one another.

'And I repeat, Sergeant, your point is?'

When you were arrested this morning, we took a sample of your DNA – as is standard procedure. However, when we compared it to the profile we have for you on record, we found it did not match.'

Irene was making a brave attempt at keeping a very blasé expression on her face but failing rather miserably.

'But, strangely enough, a DNA sample taken from the body of Miss Isabelle Galbraith did match the profile we have for you.' Sally paused and looked at Irene again.

'How do you explain that, Miss Adler?'

'Why ask me? How would I know? You'd do better to ask the person who keeps the records, surely.'

'Ah, well, we did,' Sally declared, brightly. Irene's mouth was now very dry. She reached for the plastic cup of water on the table and picked it up with a trembling hand, taking a rather large gulp.

'When we spoke to Mr Robert O'Dowd, the former Department Manager for the National DNA Database – he's now retired, by the way – he was actually quite informative. In fact, he told us that he had altered the stored profile, at your insistence, just round about the time that you lost your phone. That was quite a busy week for you, wasn't it?'

Irene continued to glare at DS Donovan, as the colour slowly drained from her cheeks, beneath the somewhat faded make up.

'How did you know Mr O'Dowd?' Sally asked.

'I don't know anyone of that name,' Irene insisted.

Really? OK.'

Sally paused for a moment, and then went on.

'Can you explain what you mean by this statement?' At a signal from the DS, the DVD was turned on again, showing Irene in the power station.

'Rewind 4 seconds, please,' Sally requested, and they all watched the film run backwards and then pause. When it ran on again, Sally lip-synced as she read from the transcript.

_'DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.'_

_'I know what he likes. And I needed to disappear.'_

The PC 'paused' the DVD again.

'Dr Watson tells us that he suggested you knew the record keeper. Your reply was_ 'I know what he likes.'_ How did you know what he liked, Miss Adler?'

Irene took another gulp of water and licked her lips. She was beginning to feel the net closing and she had no idea how to escape it. They seemed to know an awful lot but she wondered how much was just plain guess-work.

'Show her Exhibit 4B' Mycroft murmured into the microphone.

Sally Donovan rifled through the pile of evidence bags until she found the one she needed and turned it over, in front of Irene.

'I am showing the suspect Exhibit 4B' she said, for the tape.

It was a photograph of a rather rotund, slightly balding man, dressed in what could only be described as an oversized, terry towelling, baby's napkin. He was lying on a large, ornate, antique bed and, sitting beside him, on the bed, wearing a very skimpy version of a traditional nanny's uniform, was Irene Adler. She was in the process of admonishing the man, waving a large wooden spoon in his face and he was adopting a suitably cowed posture and sucking his thumb.

Irene recognised the photograph as one of those she had kept stored on her phone. It was one of the photos she had used to coerce Mr O'Dowd into altering her record on the DNA Database.

'Do you recognise the people in this photograph, Miss Adler?'

'Yes,' Irene replied, tightly.

'Would you please tell me who they are?'

Irene folded her arms and turned slightly away from the table.

'The man is Mr Robert O'Dowd and the woman is me.'

'Thank you,' Sally replied and removed the photograph, putting it back in the pile.

'Well, unfortunately for you,' she continued, 'Mr O'Dowd was only able to change the computer record of your DNA profile. He had no access to the actual sample of your stored tissue that was linked to the profile. We have retrieved that sample and had it tested. It does not match the profile. But then, we knew that already, didn't we? Because the profile is actually that of Miss Galbraith.'

'I need another break,' Irene interjected.

'Just one more question, first.' Sally looked at the solicitor, who looked at Irene, who shrugged in a resigned manner.

'What did you mean when you said you needed to disappear?'

'Look, I was being hunted by the CIA. I needed to get away, go in to hiding, disappear!'

'Is that why you faked your own death?' Sally asked.

'I didn't fake my own death! Don't be absurd!'

'So why did you go to so much trouble to change your DNA record?'

Irene looked at her, open-mouthed. She could not think of anything to say.

ooOoo

Molly awoke when she heard the front door open and William's voice coming from the sitting room. She slipped carefully out of Sherlock's embrace and tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. As she entered the sitting room, William was surprised to see her but, after a moment of disorientation, delighted.

'Mummy!' he cried and ran to hug her. Marie was just coming in from the hall, having hung up hers and William's coats.

'Molly, how's everything? Are you alright?' Marie asked, looking at her intently.

'Yes, I'm fine, thanks. I just woke up. Gosh, I didn't realise how late it is. I need to go and get Freddie.'

'I'm sure you've got time for a cup of tea, first, haven't you?'

Molly nodded. A cup of tea would be just what the doctor ordered. As William settled down for his regular afternoon TV session, Molly followed Marie into the kitchen and sat at the table, as the nanny put on the kettle.

'Are you sure you're OK? You look really worn out.'

'Well, it has been one of those days,' Molly admitted. Marie continued to look at her, with a concerned expression,

'Well, Sherlock told me what that woman did to him.' As Molly spoke, she felt that familiar tightness in her chest and the rising lump in her throat. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and waved her hands in front of her face, like fans, trying to suppress the tears that were threatening to overflow her lower eye lids.

'Don't be nice to me, Marie, it will just make me worse,' she gasped.

'Someone needs to be nice to you! This has been just as hard for you as it has for him – well, almost,' she amended, as Molly gave her a cautioning look.

'You've been holding everything together for everyone but what about you?'

'I can't give in to my feelings, Marie. If I cave in, we're done for!'

Marie reached across the table and grasped Molly's hand.

'That's what I'm talking about. You are suppressing your own feelings because you are afraid of what will happen if you let go. But, sooner or later, you will have to let go. You can't hold it all in for ever.'

Molly slumped down in the chair and put her head in her hands.

'I know you're right, Marie and I do appreciate you for saying it but now is just not the right time. There's too much at stake. I have to postpone my nervous breakdown.' She looked up and smiled.

'It's great that you can joke about it, Molly, but just remember, you don't have to do it all yourself. There are people you can talk to, people trained to deal with this kind of thing. They're not just there for the victim, they work with the families, too.'

'Sherlock won't talk to a rape counsellor, I know he won't,' Molly sighed, shaking her head.

'Well, that's his choice. But that doesn't mean that you can't. There are special units where you can self-refer.'

Marie placed the mug of tea in front of Molly and, sitting in the chair next to her, put a friendly arm around her shoulders.

'Seriously, Molly, have you looked in the mirror lately?'

Molly looked up.

'That bad, eh?'

'You have bags under your eyes that you could fit a weekly shop in! Are you sleeping?'

'Not really. It's all been so hectic. And Sherlock's been really restless, tossing and turning, getting up and moving about, waking me up even when I do manage to doze off. It's been a bloody nightmare, to be honest.'

'Well, you need to stop trying to be Wonder Woman. Hang on a minute.'

Marie took out her phone and Googled 'Sexual Assault Referral Unit' then emailed the link to Molly's account.

'You call them. They have a twenty-four hour switchboard. Ring them up, make an appointment and go and see them. I'll keep nagging you until you do.'

'Alright, you've convinced me. I'll ring them…..'

'Make sure you do,' Marie insisted.

'Yes, Mother!' replied Molly, sipping her tea, gratefully.

ooOoo

Having finished her tea, Molly put on her coat and left the flat to take the ten minute walk to St Bart's and Freddie's crèche. She was kind of grateful to Marie for thinking of her but also a bit put out. It really had not helped to be reminded of her own vulnerability. She was all too aware that, at the moment, everything rested on her shoulders – the weight was almost unbearably crushing.

Sherlock's account of the whole incident had been so shocking and not just because of the physical abuse that he had described. She had taunted him, said horrible things. One thing in particular was exceptionally cruel. Molly wondered if it was even true. She doubted it but that was the clever part – one could never be sure. It was entirely plausible that Irene had conceived a child as a consequence of their encounter in Karachi. Let's face it, Molly's own one night stand with Sherlock had resulted in William, so it could happen.

Irene had been held captive for a month so had had no access to oral contraception and although Sherlock, by his own admission, had gone out there with the specific intension of having sex with the woman, he hadn't taken any contraception with him. He wasn't exactly practical, where such things were concerned. So, yes, it could have happened. But to tell a man in one breath that he had impregnated you and then, in the next, that you had 'got rid' of the child – that was just vindictive, especially knowing how much he loved his darling boys.

Molly was of the opinion that there were enough unhappy children in the world and any child raised by Irene Adler would surely come under that category but it still did not alter the fact that Irene had taunted him with the revelation. Personally, Molly didn't believe the baby had ever existed. She hoped, eventually, to convince Sherlock of the same.

She was brought up short in her musings when she realised she had walked straight past the entrance to St Bart's. She stopped short and turned around, flustered that she had no memory of the journey from home to here. Wandering around London, in the rush hour, zoned out on automatic pilot was not a sensible thing to do. It was a miracle she had not been run down by a bus. Shaking her head in disbelief, she made her way through the hospital corridors to the rear entrance and the gates of the Nursery, pressing the call button to be allowed access. As she walked into Reception, the normally smiling receptionist looked extremely apprehensive. The smile froze on Molly's lips as the woman spoke.

'Oh, Miss Hooper, I've been trying to get hold of both you and Mr Holmes all afternoon but your phones keep going to voice mail. I've left lots of messages.'

Molly took her phone out of her pocket and looked at it, even as she recalled switching it off before she went into the bedroom for her 'talk' with Sherlock. His phone had been off, too, and even after it was turned on, the battery was so low, it probably switched itself off again.

'Wh…..what's happened?' she stammered.

'Little Freddie's had a bit of an accident. He's fine but we just wanted to let you know.'

The woman may as well have been saying 'blah-blah-blah' for all the sense it made to Molly. All she heard was the first part, that Freddie had had an accident. Her ears began to ring, her cheeks blanched and her knees turned to jelly. Her bag and phone fell from her hands as she staggered back against the glass wall of the Reception Area. The receptionist looked on in dismay as Molly Hooper folded up, rather gracefully, into an insensate heap on the floor.

ooOoo


	21. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**

Molly sat on a chair, in the Baby Room – known as Starfish – feeling rather foolish, with a happily smiling Freddie sitting on her knee, sporting an egg-shaped swelling on his forehead. He had been toddling along, holding onto the edge of the little table, when his grip slipped and he banged his head on the corner of the table top. He had cried very loudly, which was a good sign. The nursery staff had called across to the hospital for a paediatrician to come and take a look at him, and applied an icepack, in the meantime, to keep down the swelling.

The paediatrician had tested all his responses and was satisfied he wasn't concussed but recommended a skull x-ray, just to be on the safe side. The receptionist had been unable to reach Molly or Sherlock by phone but the nursery had a signed consent form for emergency treatment, so Freddie went off to Radiology for an x-ray and came back with a Smiley-face sticker and a clean bill of health.

'I'm so sorry, Miss Hooper. I didn't mean to frighten you,' the receptionist pleaded, wringing her hands in anguish. Molly shook her head and tried to placate the poor woman.

'Please, don't feel bad. I just over-reacted. It's not your fault.' She took another sip from the glass of water the nursery nurse had brought to her.

'I've spoken to your nanny. She says she will tell Mr Holmes what's happened and get him to come for you,' the receptionist advised her and scurried off, still concerned that she might be reprimanded for mishandling the disclosure.

'Shall I put Freddie on the play mat, Miss Hooper? Now that you can see he really is fine?' the young nursery worker asked.

Molly nodded and passed the baby to her. Freddie went quite happily, clearly unfazed by his recent injury. Molly watched him as he picked up a plastic hammer and began to wallop the plastic stumps through the block they sat in. Having hammered all the stumps as far through as they would go, he carefully turned the block over to reveal all the stumps, neatly primed to be hammered back through to the other side, and proceeded to wallop them again. She had to smile. That was just the sort of game that Freddie enjoyed. When Sherlock had suggested calling him Bam Bam, it had been quite prophetic. Freddie loved to bash things.

ooOoo

When Marie's mobile rang, she fished it from her bag and saw it was an unknown number. She was cautious about answering such calls but it wasn't an 0845 number so she took a chance it wouldn't be a cold call. It wasn't. It was the Nursery, calling to say that Miss Hooper had been taken ill and could Mr Holmes come to collect her and Freddie, as they didn't want her to walk home on her own. This was nothing less than Marie had anticipated. Molly was stretched to her limit. She cursed herself that she had not said something sooner.

She walked down the hall and knocked on the door to the Master bedroom. After a short pause the door opened to reveal a rather dishevelled Sherlock, having just been roused from a very deep sleep – what John Watson referred to as his 'Post-Case Coma'. He quickly found his wits when she relayed to him what the Nursery had said. He thanked her, closed the door and dived into the bathroom to douse his face in cold water, run his fingers through his hair and put on his jacket and shoes. Emerging into the sitting room, he gave William a quick, reassuring hug and told the little boy not to worry, he was going to get Mummy. Marie assured him that she was fine to stay and take care of things at home.

Grabbing his coat, Sherlock left the flat and ran all the way to Bart's. This being rush hour, it was definitely the fastest way to get there. He arrived about five minutes later and was admitted by a still-agitated receptionist, though he was quite oblivious to her distress, having only eyes for Molly and Freddie. The little roly-poly pudding of a child greeted his father with a shriek of delight and abandoned the hammering to crawl across the mat towards him. Sherlock knelt down beside Molly's chair and put his hand on her arm, looking into her eyes with concern.

'I am fine, really. I just got myself into a state over nothing. Freddie's fine. He just banged his head, like they all do when they start to get around.' She was babbling and she knew it.

Sherlock shushed her.

'Are you alright to walk – to the door, I mean, not all the way home?' She said she was.

He borrowed her phone, as he had left his behind, and used the special app to order a cab. It said it would be there in five minutes. They gathered Freddie's gear together, putting on his coat and collecting his bag, then one of the staff walked with them, through the hospital corridors to the front entrance, pushing Freddie in the buggy so that Sherlock could devote all his attention to holding Molly, firmly, round her waist and under one arm, arriving just as the cab pulled up. They climbed in and set off for home.

He put a protective arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder, while Freddie sat in his buggy, facing rearwards and babbling at everything he saw through the windows of the cab. As the taxi pulled up outside their building, Marie came out and brought Freddie inside, whilst Sherlock helped Molly in and settled her on the sofa. Turning to Marie, Sherlock thanked her, profusely, for staying on but assured her he could take things from here. She apologised for not being able to stay longer but she had plans for the evening. He assured her that was fine. Marie explained that she had finished preping the vegetables and that everything was ready to cook, then she departed.

Molly lay on the sofa, feeling like a wuss and hating herself for it but every time she went to sit up, she was so light-headed, she lay straight back down again. This was just what she had been hoping to avoid but it had happened anyway. Freddie's little tumble was just the final straw. Sherlock brought her a large glass of water and a mug of tea and told her to stay exactly where she was, whilst he cooked supper. With Freddie sitting in his high chair, banging and babbling, and William at the kitchen table, helping out by setting out the place mats and cutlery, and chattering non-stop, the meal was ready in no time. Molly walked gingerly into the kitchen and sat next to William, as Sherlock served the food.

'Have you got a lot on your mind, Mummy?' William asked.

'Yes, I suppose I have,' she answered.

'Are they the same things that Daddy has on his mind?'

'Yes, I'm afraid they are,' she confirmed.

'I've got a lot on my mind, as well,' he announced.

'Really? What do you have on your mind?' she asked, looking down at him.

'Well, if Sir Isaac Newton hadn't been sitting in an orchard when an apple fell to the ground, we might never have found out about gravity.'

'Oh, dear!' Molly exclaimed. 'Would that be such a bad thing?'

'Oh, yes, Mummy, it would. I mean, if we didn't know about gravity, we wouldn't know how to fly aeroplanes or rockets and we would never have gone into space. So we wouldn't have satellites.'

'Are satellites very important?'

William looked at his mother as though she had just declared that the earth was flat.

'Satellites are very important, Mummy, for TV and mobile phones and the Internet. None of those would be any good without satellites.'

'Well, I can see why you would be worried. But Sir Isaac Newton was in the orchard when the apple fell, so it's OK.'

'Actually, Daddy says he wasn't.'

'Does he?' Molly queried, giving Sherlock a quizzical look, which he patently ignored.

'Yes, he says that it's an apocryphal tale and that Newton used the concept of an apple falling from a tree as an analogy to explain gravity but everyone interpreted him literally and now we all believe something that is, essentially, a lie – or a modern-day myth.'

'Well, that's probably true, if Daddy says so,' Molly conceded.

'But when I told my teacher that, she said that Daddy is entitled to his opinion but she would rather believe the myth.'

Molly was finding it hard to suppress her mirth, now, and thinking that problems never seemed half so bad when they could be filtered through the logic of a five year old philosopher.

'What do the other children think?' she asked.

'I don't think they think much, at all,' William replied, wrinkling his brow.

'Well, I'm glad you do,' she replied, giving him a hug.

Supper over, Sherlock took the boys for their communal bath and then brought Freddie back to Molly for his evening feed before taking William to bed and reading him a story. By the time he came back into the sitting room, Freddie was in bed and Molly was loading the dish washer. He insisted she sit down whilst he finished the job and made a pot of tea, which they took through to the sitting room. Seated together on the sofa, He took Molly by the hand and pressed her fingers to his lips.

'I am so sorry, Molly, really sorry,' he began. She went to speak but he held up a hand to ask her to pause.

'This is all down to me, this situation. If I had listened to what you and John and Mrs Hudson advised, we wouldn't be where we are now. I knew what Irene was like – better than most – but I was too arrogant to listen to anyone. You are far too forgiving. And I take advantage of that much too often. You always make excuses for me, you always have.'

'Ever since this thing happened, you have been there, being strong, holding everything together, and I have just let you get on with it. I haven't even given a thought to how it might be affecting you. And I can see it in your face, right now, that you're thinking I can't help that, it's just the way I am. But that's not true. I don't have to be this way. I can change. I have changed - a bit – but not enough - yet.'

'I'm not a child and I shouldn't behave like a child. And you mustn't treat me like one. As John would say, I need to 'man up'. You've been running yourself ragged, trying to do what's best for me. Now, I'm asking you, what can I do that's best for you? And I want you to be honest. What do you need?'

He stopped and looked at her, with those intense blue-grey-green eyes, and the over-riding imperative in that look was that she say what she wanted to say rather than what she thought he wanted to hear.

Molly took a large draught of water and then swallowed hard before speaking. Thinking about herself was not something that came naturally to her. She had been brought up to always put the needs of others first. And where Sherlock was concerned, she found it hardest of all not to do that. He was right when he said she had always made excuses for the things he said and did, the way he behaved. It was almost a conditioned reflex. But he said he wanted her to be honest and she had never been able to deny him what he wanted.

'This whole situation scares me. I feel completely out of my depth. I don't know what to do to help you. I'm not a rape counsellor. I don't know if I'm saying the right thing, doing the right thing, making it better or making it worse. I feel like I'm drowning.' As she spoke, the strain of the previous few days could be heard in her voice and seen in her face.

Sherlock shook his head, in a gesture of frustration.

'But you're still talking about me – what I need. What about you, Molly?'

'I'm sorry…'

'Don't!' he exclaimed, then held up his hands, in apology for his outburst, as she flinched. He reached out and stroked down her arm.

'Don't apologise to me for anything. You have nothing to be sorry about. Please, just tell me what I can do for you.'

Molly took a deep breath, to strengthen her resolve. She knew he would not like what she was about to say.

'I want to see a rape counsellor, Sherlock, and I want you to come with me.'

She could see by the look on his face that the idea was abhorrent to him but she could also see that he knew how important it was to her. He sat back against the sofa cushions, considering what she had just said, balancing his own objections against her desperate need. Eventually, he reached a decision.

'Very well, if that's what you need, I will do it,' he conceded. Molly launched herself at him and hugged him tight, as a huge wave of relief washed over her. Leaning back, to look into his eyes, she licked her lips and said,

'Can we ring up and make an appointment?'

He heaved a sigh and nodded. Reaching down to her handbag, she took out her phone. He looked at it and at her and she saw his throat constrict with apprehension. But he didn't say anything. She selected the email app and opened the email that Marie had sent her. The phone number of the nearest Sexual Assault Referral Unit was highlighted. She touched it and her phone dialled the number, automatically. Putting the phone to her ear, she reached for his hand, which felt cold and clammy, but he plaited his fingers into hers and rested his forehead against her temple, as her call was answered by a friendly voice.

ooOoo

**Sexual Assault Referral Units are real and they do amazing work with rape victims and their families. They are open everyday of the year, in the UK.**


	22. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** One**

Irene sat in the small cell, in the Custody Suite, in the bowels of New Scotland Yard, reviewing her situation. She was angry. With herself. She had allowed that odious Detective Sergeant to rattle her. Why did she admit to giving Sherlock her phone? She could have said she gave him anything for safe-keeping. That was her first mistake. And why had she admitted knowing O'Dowd's name? She could have said that he had told her a different name. But she could hardly deny knowing him. The photograph – taken, no doubt, from her own phone by Mycroft bloody Holmes' crew – gave that away. It was a dark day, in deed, when Sherlock Holmes broke the code of her password. More fool her for making it his damn name.

In retrospect, she was quite surprised that it took him so long to realise what it was. She had heard he was arrogant but clearly not in terms of his appeal to the fairer sex. If that were the case, he surely wouldn't have settled for that mousy creature he'd set up home with. And who would have guessed he would be so paternal? That had been the biggest shock of all but it had furnished her with some useful ammunition, when she needed it.

But she'd been in worse situations than this – Karachi, for one! At least no one here was threatening to chop her head off with a sword! What was the worst that could happen? A few years in prison? She could survive that and come out fighting again. She just needed to relax, calm down and get things into perspective. They still had to prove that she knew anything about the plot to lure in a suitable candidate for her body double. She just needed to keep her cool.

In the meantime, she needed to use the toilet. She would have appreciated a few hours' sleep but she was pretty sure that wasn't an option. At least they had fed her and the food was not too bad. The tea was disgusting. She wouldn't be drinking that again. Stick to water, it's much better for the complexion.

Irene Adler went to the door of her holding cell and called out. A trip to the bathroom would give her the opportunity to stretch her legs, splash some water on her face and tidy up her appearance. A lady has her pride, after all.

ooOoo

The interrogation team had reviewed the video recording of the second session with Irene Adler. She wasn't even trying to hide the fact that she was lying, now, but her confidence had been undermined. The post mortem photo of Isabelle Galbraith had clearly unsettled her and Irene's inability to give any sort of answer to the question of why she felt the need to falsify her DNA record was significant, in that it was the clear evidence of how rattled she was. She may have had few qualms about permitting another person to die in order to further her own cause but she didn't care to be confronted with the reality of it.

Mycroft was conscious that the team would be just as tired if not more so then the suspect and he took the decision to suspend the interview until the next day. Irene could be held for thirty-six hours without charge but, if they had enough evidence, they could apply for an extension – or even charge her. He was banking on the fact that they would have what they needed by six o'clock the following afternoon.

Having congratulated the team on the job so far, he instructed them all to go home and get a good night's sleep but be back by seven o'clock in the morning, for a pre-interview meeting and a prompt eight o'clock resumption of the interrogation. He, however, would need to check in at the office before going home to his children. He had not made it home the night before because of the early appointment at Heathrow so he would definitely be going home tonight.

ooOoo

When the team reassembled the next morning, Mycroft was pleased to see they all looked refreshed. They would need to be on top of their game, today. The previous evening, he had reviewed the results of the first day's interrogation and produced an abstract of targets for the second day. He went over these with the team and concluded by saying,

'Our aim is to prove that she was aware that someone would be murdered in order to provide her with a body double. If we can also prove that she had a hand in selecting the victim, better still. The evidence we have is circumstantial so, ideally, we need a confession.'

He turned to Sally Donovan, who was clearly in her element in the interview situation.

'Sergeant Donovan, you have done sterling work, so far. If you can continue in this vein, I am extremely hopeful of a positive outcome.'

Sally simply nodded. She was more than ready for the task ahead.

When Irene Adler entered the Interview Room, she looked rather different from the day before. She had spent the night in cells, in the Custody Suite of NSY, listening to the local drunks cursing and shouting and throwing up. One of her neighbours had insisted on 'beat boxing' well into the early hours of the morning. Irene, however, had been so exhausted, she slept anyway. She had no access to shower facilities, makeup or a change of clothing but she had been able to wash and eat a good breakfast. She looked remarkably well, considering the circumstances, and she did seem to have regained some of her poise. She sat next to her solicitor, sipping water from the plastic cup provided and looking rather bored. Mycroft settled into his own seat, in the Observation Room, and waited for the action to begin.

After the usual preliminaries, Sally Donovan began where she had left off, the day before.

'Miss Adler, I'd like to ask you again why you felt the need to change your DNA record, to the extent that you were prepared to blackmail Mr O'Dowd in order to persuade him to change it for you.'

'I was told to do it,' Irene replied.

'By whom?'

'By a man called James Moriarty.'

'And why did this Mr Moriarty tell you to change your DNA record?'

'He didn't say. He just told me it needed to be done and told me how to go about doing it.'

'Did you ask him why he told you to do it?'

'No, I didn't. He wasn't the sort of person you asked why anything. If he told you to do something, you just did it.'

'How did you know Mr Moriarty?'

'He was my…' she paused, as though searching for the right description. 'My advisor.'

'Advisor on what?'

Irene paused again, deciding how much – or rather how little – she could get away with saying on this subject. She wondered if the police had any knowledge at all of her previous involvement with the British authorities. Whilst she was thinking, her interrogators sat, passively, waiting. That, in itself, suggested to her that they must know something.

'I had some valuable information. Mr Moriarty was advising me on how I might get the best price for that information.'

'So the instruction to change your DNA record was part of your scheme to sell this information for the best price?' Sally asked.

'Yes,' Irene replied.

'How did that work, exactly?'

'I have no idea. But he told me to do it, so I did.'

Sally nodded, as though satisfied with that answer.

'So, when you said you needed to disappear, you had no plans to fake your own death.'

'None what so ever, I just needed to hide out for a while.'

'When did you find out that you were supposed to be dead?'

'When you told me, yesterday.'

Sally Donovan nodded to the PC in charge of the DVD player and he switched it on. The scene was back in Battersea Power Station and Irene Adler was still in close-up. Her image spoke and DS Donovan lip-synced again.

'_It's for his own safety.'_

'_I can't.'_

'_What do I say?'_

'_Just the usual stuff.'_

'_Good morning, I like your funny hat. _

_I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner. _

_Hm, you look sexy on Crimewatch, let's have dinner._

_I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner.'_

'_At him. He never replies.'_

'_Does that make me special?'_

'_You jealous?'_

'_Yes, you are.'_

'_There, I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'_

'_Well, I am. Look at us both.'_

_I don't think so, do you?'_

The PC froze the image once again.

'So why, Miss Adler, if you didn't know you were supposed to be dead, did you text Sherlock Holmes to tell him that you weren't?'

'It's just an expression. You know, you haven't spoken to someone for a long time so you text them and say 'I'm not dead.' It's a sort of joke.' She made the last comment with a look that suggested that the DS did not know what a joke was.

'This Mr Moriarty, will he corroborate your version of events?'

'I'm sure he would, if he could, but unfortunately he's no longer with us.'

Mycroft could feel the advantage slipping away. The flimsiness of their evidence was beginning to show. If the woman continued to feign ignorance of the plot to source a lookalike and murder the poor girl, in order to allow Irene to disappear, then there was little chance of getting this past the Crown Prosecution Service. He was beginning to regret suspending the interview the night before. She seemed to have rallied her resolve, overnight. He made a decision and, leaning towards the microphone, he said,

'Suspend the interview. I have a suggestion to make.'

DS Donovan looked at DI Lestrade, who simply shrugged, so she turned back to the suspect and said,

'This interview is suspended,' and gave the time and date of the suspension. After Irene was removed from the room, the two detectives made their way to the Observation Room, where Mycroft was waiting and coffee had been provided.

'I would like to speak to her myself, off the record, to offer a plea bargain,' he proposed.

'Her solicitor would need to be present,' the DI reminded him.

'That is not a problem.'

'May we know what the bargain might be?' Lestrade asked.

Mycroft thought about that and concluded,

'It would probably be better if you didn't. I wouldn't like to compromise your professional integrity.'

Greg Lestrade pursed his lips and, not for the first time in his life, wondered about the grey, shadowy world that Mycroft Holmes inhabited and thanked his lucky stars that he did not need to know what the man had in mind for Irene Adler.

Sally Donovan was dispatched to speak to the solicitor, who in turn spoke to Irene, who agreed to an 'off the record' chat with whom so ever it might be who wished to speak to her. The DS returned to the Observation Room to report this fact. Then she and Lestrade stayed in the room and Mycroft left. The two detectives watched as Irene and her legal representative returned to the Interview Room but they heard nothing, as the sound link had been turned off. The camera was transmitting but not recording. There would be no tangible record of this encounter.

The expression on Irene's face when Mycroft Holmes entered the room confirmed that she had suspected it was he who had requested the chat. She smirked and lowered her eyes, momentarily, as Mycroft sat down, opposite her.

'Mr Holmes, I thought I detected your light and delicate touch during the interview. Have you been here all along?' she purred, in a flirtatious manner.

'Of course I have, Miss Adler. I was curious to see how you would attempt to wriggle out of this tight corner.'

'And were you impressed with what you saw?'

'Not really. I found you sadly predictable – Weren't me, guvnor, big boy done it and ran away – I think that sums up your defence.'

'If you choose to describe Moriarty as a 'big boy', I suppose you're right,' she smiled, smugly. 'So, what do you have to offer me?'

'First of all, I have a small favour to ask.'

'I'm intrigued,' she replied. 'You can ask, by all means but I can't promise anything.'

'I would be most grateful if you would come clean about your involvement in choosing the young lady to be your body double. Miss Galbraith's family deserve some justice for her vile and despicable murder and since we both know that Mr Moriarty is no longer around to face the consequences of his fiendish plot, I'm afraid that leaves just you.'

Irene stared at Mycroft with an expression of utter disbelief, as though she were wondering if she had misheard him. Next, she laughed, heartily. Then she fixed him with a pitying stare.

'You must have taken leave of your senses, Mr Holmes, if you think I would confess to something when you do not have a single shred of evidence to convict me. Do you think I'm an idiot?'

'Not at all, Miss Adler, I know what you are.'

'And what might that be?'

'You, my dear lady, are a pragmatist.'

Irene narrowed her eyes, wondering what the man with the lizard smile had up his sleeve that would lead him to make such a preposterous request.

'I repeat my original question, Mr Holmes. What do you have to offer?'

'Your life.'

'Sorry?'

'I would like you to recall the newspaper headlines I showed you, yesterday.'

Irene pursed her lips, slightly annoyed to be reminded of her public 'outing' as a 'modern day Mata Hari'.

'Those headlines have been relayed across the globe, via every medium available. By now, the whole world knows that Irene Adler, the woman who was believed to have been beheaded six years ago in Karachi, is alive and well and living in Philadelphia.'

'So?'

'It may surprise you to learn that the terrorist group that held you captive, back then, are no strangers to the Internet and they have taken quite an interest in the details of your current whereabouts.'

'What are you saying?' she asked, even though she was fairly sure she knew the answer to that question already.

'I think my brother summed it up rather accurately, all those years ago, when he said that if I were feeling kind, I should lock you up, since you wouldn't last six months, without your protection. On this occasion, my dear, I'm feeling kind.'

ooOoo


	23. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** Two**

Molly was surprised and Sherlock alarmed when they were given an appointment for the very next day. He had been hoping for more time to get used to the idea but he knew that, for Molly, it was the best news possible.

'We don't use family names, here,' the counsellor explained. 'We give you a unique registration number and just use given names, for the sake of anonymity.'

'My partner has a very unusual given name,' Molly explained.

'Well, since the referral is in your name, the records will be in your name, too. So that doesn't need to present a problem.'

This first appointment was mostly taken up with the exchange of information. The counsellor explained what services they offered and Molly gave a very sketchy account of the assault and a more detailed account of what she hoped to gain from speaking to a rape counsellor. Sherlock said nothing at all. Not even 'hello'. Molly was not surprised by that. He was not comfortable in this type of situation and the mere fact that he had come along was more than enough for her. The counsellor glanced at him a number of times, as he sat in his coat, with the collar turned up, feigning indifference. Molly, however, knew he was taking in every detail of the exchange

On the journey home, in the cab, he remained silent. She put her hand on his and asked him if he was alright. He kissed the top of her head and made an ambiguous head movement, that could have been yes or no. He was obviously processing something, so she left him to his introspection.

Once they were back in the privacy of their home, however, he found his voice again. He came through to the kitchen and round the table to stand in front of her. He looked pale and gaunt but, mostly, he looked lost.

'Molly, why have you put up with me for so long?'

She frowned and quickly thought back over her conversation with the counsellor, wondering what she might have said that could have prompted such a remark but she couldn't find anything that fit the bill. She was confused.

'What do you mean? I haven't 'put up with' you. I love you,' she exclaimed, alarmed by the strange comment but even more so by his drawn expression.

'God, you must do. What I don't understand is how that could possibly be enough to compensate for everything else.'

Molly had been filling the kettle but she switched off the tap and put the kettle down, turning to give him her full attention.

'What are you talking about?' she asked, with a hollow feeling. She had come out of their counselling session feeling positive and hopeful. It had clearly had the opposite effect on him. This was disastrous!

'I never realised how much I take advantage of you,' he replied, bluntly.

'I don't know what you mean. You don't take advantage of me at all,' she laughed, nervously.

'Oh, but I do, all the time. I use you like a security blanket. I never knew how much until yesterday and then, again, today.' His gaze was intense, frighteningly so.

'Sherlock, don't talk like this, please!'

He moved closer, so that his face was only inches from hers.

'But I have to, Molly, I have to talk like this. I should have known this would happen. I should have seen it coming.'

She stepped back, in an attempt to reduce the tension between them.

'Sherlock, what are you talking about. I don't understand.'

'We can't continue like this. It's not fair. You deserve better,' he replied, shaking his head.

'Better? Better than what?'

'Me, Molly, better than me.' He reached out to touch her cheek. His hand was trembling.

'What? Sherlock, stop this. You're scaring me.'

He dropped his hand and stepped back, away from her.

'I'm sorry, Molly. I'm sorry for scaring you. I'm sorry for everything.'

She put a hand on his arm and searched his face for a clue as to what could be happening.

'Where's all this coming from? I don't understand.'

He jerked his head back, sharply, and said,

'I should go.'

He turned and walked back through the sitting room. She was momentarily frozen to the spot but then raced after him.

'Go? Go where?' she demanded, as realisation began to set in.

'It doesn't matter where, just not here.'

'Sherlock, are you leaving me?' It was a shriek of alarm.

He stopped and half turned back towards her.

'Leaving you?' He seemed surprised by those words. 'Yes, I suppose I am. I'm doing what's best for you.'

Molly caught his arm and spun him round, with a strength she had no idea she possessed.

'What makes you think you know what's best for me? Don't I have a say in this?'

He looked down at her with eyes filled with pain and regret.

'No, I'm afraid you don't, because you never do what's best for you. You always do what's best for everyone else. So I'm doing it for you.'

She gasped, stunned by his words, reaching out with her hand, grasping him by the arm.

'You don't know what's best for me! You can't read my mind. You don't know what I need.'

'Molly, please don't make this harder than it is,' he pleaded.

'Harder?' Her voice was raw and strident, almost a scream. 'How could it possibly be harder?'

Her heart was pounding and there was a rushing in her ears, as she grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him, in desperation.

'You are saying the worst thing I could ever imagine and you're telling me not to make it harder? There's no way this could get any harder. You're leaving me. That's the worst thing that could ever happen. What's gotten into you?'

'Sense, I've finally seen sense,' he replied, in a soft whisper, like a sigh.

He took hold of her hands and gently peeled them from his coat, holding them to his chest.

'If I stayed, that would be the worst thing that could happen.'

'Worst for who?' she sobbed, pushing him away. But he wouldn't let go, squeezing her hands, to give emphasis his words.

'For you, Molly. For God's sake, haven't you been listening to a word I've said?'

She managed to pull one hand free and slapped him, hard, across the face.

'Damn you, Sherlock Holmes! You selfish bastard!' she sobbed, beside herself with panic.

He released her other hand and drew himself up to his full height, looking down at her, with a dull, glazed stare.

'Yes, I am selfish. You see it, at last. That's what I've been saying. That's why I have to go.' His voice sounded broken but his eyes were cold.

She had no idea what he was saying anymore. All she knew was that the man whose very existence made her life worth living had turned his back and was walking away, out of the door of the home they had shared for two and a half years. He was leaving. Leaving her. Leaving their children. Leaving.

ooOoo

Mrs Hudson was in her sitting room, watching afternoon TV, when she heard the front door open and close and the sound of footsteps, going up the stairs, to 221B. She recognised Sherlock's footfall, a sound she had been listening for but had not heard for over a week. It was all she could do to stop herself running out into the hallway and seizing him in a tight hug. But, over the years, she had learned to interpret his mood by the quality of those sounds of his feet on the stairs. Today, he was very unhappy. That was to be expected. He must be apprehensive about going back to 221B, after what had happened there.

'Poor dear,' she murmured, to the empty room.

But she sensed something more than apprehension in those footsteps. She tracked them across the ceiling to his favourite chair – not the sofa. Ah, so he wasn't having a strop and sulking so, hopefully, that ruled out a domestic. In truth, she had never known Sherlock and Molly to have an argument – oh….yes, maybe one. They seemed to rub along very nicely together. But after what had occurred in the flat upstairs just a week ago – well, that sort of thing could put a strain on any relationship. She knew that the way he dealt with some things was to retreat into himself. She had no idea what was going on in that head of his but whatever it was, he obviously needed to think it through and he did all his best thinking at Baker Street.

Mrs H had spent two days cleaning the flat from top to bottom. She had washed every item of crockery and cutlery, every pan, dish and bowl; wiped down, with bleach, all the light switches and door handles, the window latches and the water taps, every surface that Irene Adler might have touched. She had taken down the curtains and had them dry-cleaned, along with the duvet; brought in a specialist to clean the carpets, rugs and mattress. The bathroom, she had blitzed, with powerful anti-bacterial cleaners, and scrubbed the floor to within an inch of its life. The bedroom, especially, she had gutted. She was determined that there would be absolutely no trace of that woman left behind. She hoped he wouldn't notice. She knew that he would.

She went back to watching the TV – a programme about buying a house in the country. Live in the country? She couldn't imagine anything worse. She was a city girl, born and bred. She liked having everything she needed, right on her doorstep.

Two quizzes and an antiques show later, she got up to go and put the kettle on, to make a cup of tea. Then she remembered that Sherlock was still upstairs. He was very quiet up there. She could picture him, sitting in his grey leather chair, his shoulders hunched, his chin on his hand, gazing at some fixed point, oblivious to his surroundings.

She filled the kettle and switched it on, looking up at the ceiling and pondering what could be going through the mind of the flawed genius in the upstairs flat. Coming to a decision, she switched off the kettle, left her flat and climbed the stairs, to beard the lion in his den.

Sherlock was sitting, as she had pictured him, still in his coat and scarf, deep in thought. She was barely two steps away when his eyelids flickered and he looked at her, with a hollow expression. She noted a large angry blemish on his left cheek, just beginning to turn blue round the edges, becoming a bruise.

'You're very quiet, dear. Are you alright?' she asked, putting a hand on his arm.

He tilted his head to one side and looked down, his mouth moving, as though he was trying to voice something that just wouldn't be articulated. At last, he found the words he was searching for.

'Mrs Hudson, I have been so stupid. How could I be so stupid?' he groaned. She had no idea what he was talking about but the sight of this proud, private man looking so defeated, with his face ashen, but for that developing bruise, was shocking in the extreme. She moved closer, in an attempt to comfort him, but he pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the window.

'What have you done that is so terrible, dear?' she coaxed.

'It doesn't matter. I've taken steps to put it right. I'll be living here from now on,' was his earth-shattering response.

Mrs Hudson gasped in disbelief.

'What? Living here? As in on your own?'

She took his silence as a 'yes'.

'This is not the best time to be making life-changing decisions, Sherlock. You've had a terrible experience. You're really not yourself at the moment,' she cautioned him.

He turned around and shocked her still more.

'No, Mrs Hudson, you're quite wrong. I have been trying to be _not_ myself for the last three years – not very successfully. But, now, I _am_ myself again – selfish, arrogant, sociopathic.'

She tried a different approach.

'Put the fire on, dear, take your coat off and I'll make us a cup of tea. Then we can talk,' she suggested.

'No, thank you, Mrs H, I'd really like to be on my own, if you wouldn't mind,' he replied, with a terrible finality.

ooOoo

Molly was still sitting on the floor, resting her head on the seat of the sofa, where she had finished up, after Sherlock walked out of the flat. She was still in shock over the sudden turn of events, still trying to make sense of what had happened. She had shocked herself. She had slapped Sherlock in the face. She had never slapped anyone or anything in her life before. And she had sworn at him. She never swore.

She had been crying for hours – she didn't know how long. Every time she thought she had cried herself out, she was hit again by the awful fact that Sherlock had walked out on her. Just gone. And the tears would start all over again. Despite all the things she had feared might happen, this had never even crossed her mind. And his reason for leaving was the most incomprehensible part of the whole situation. Because he took advantage of her? What did he think this was? He had left her, in the middle of a crisis, with their two small children to care for. What was wrong with the man?

Thinking of the boys, she raised her head, pushed her hair from her eyes and looked at her watch. Oh, god, it was nearly half past three. William would be home soon and Freddie would need picking up from the crèche. She had to pull herself together and be the responsible adult. Someone had to.

She scrambled to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom, feeling utterly exhausted. Looking in the mirror, she was dismayed at the sight of her red face, swollen eyelids and pink eyes. She filled the basin with cold water and splashed the soothing liquid repeatedly, on her face, trying to reduce the effect of her protracted weeping session. Having dried her face, she applied some foundation and blusher and then dusted powder over it all, especially around her eyes. A little colour, in the form of eye shadow and liner was finished off with a touch of mascara and, finally, lipstick. The final effect would not fool anyone, she thought. And, what's more, she looked like a dog's dinner. Employing cleansing milk, she quickly removed it all and just applied a little foundation round her eyes, to tone down the redness.

That was all she had time for, as she heard the sound of the front door. William was home. She had no idea what she was going to tell her son, to explain his father's absence. Sherlock hadn't even thought about that, when he had dropped his bombshell, earlier. She suppressed her feelings, when she heard William's voice, but the despair was still there, under the surface.

Molly came out of the bedroom and William ran over to give her hug.

'Hello, Mummy, is Daddy asleep?'

'No, darling, Daddy's not here. He had to go away for a few days but he said to give you this.' She bent down and gave her oldest son a hug and a kiss. As she straightened up, she caught Marie's eye. The nanny was standing in the doorway to the hall, looking at her, strangely.

'Everything OK, Molly?' she asked, knowing that it wasn't.

'Can we talk about this later?' Molly replied. 'I need to go and get Freddie.' She turned to William and smiled.

'You be a good boy for Marie, darling. Mummy won't be long.' She picked up her bag and phone, pulled on her coat and left the flat, walking round the crescent and trying not to cry again. She couldn't remember if she had any tissues in her bag. She wanted to ring Sherlock but she didn't trust herself not to break down when she heard his voice so she took out her phone and wrote a text.

'What do I tell the boys?' and pressed 'send'.

The reply came quite quickly.

'The truth?'

'And what is that?' she sent back.

This time the reply took a lot longer.

'I love them.'

'Come home and tell them yourself.'

To this, there was no reply at all.

Having collected Freddie, Molly set off to walk back home. She had just reached the crossing, where Sherlock had so recently shown Freddie how the traffic was stopped and started by the changing lights, when her mobile rang with John Watson's signature tune. She took it from her pocket and answered the call.

'Molly? Are you alright?'

That was all it took to start the tears again. John could not fail to hear the hitch in her breath, even against the background noise of the rush hour traffic.

'What's happened, love?'

She took a deep breath and tried to control her voice.

'He just walked out, John, said I'd be better off without him. Has he called you?'

'No, Mrs Hudson called. She said he turned up at Baker Street and told her he'd be living there from now on. She said he looked terrible.

'Well, him and me both,' Molly replied, curtly.

'Are you OK, Molly?'

'I'll survive, John. I have to, don't I? I have two little boys to care for. They come first.'

John didn't know what to say. Sherlock was his friend but, sometimes, he really wanted to punch him. He did not understand the man at all.

'I'm on my way to see him, Moll. I'll see if I can get some sense out of him.'

'Good luck with that, John,' Molly replied and shut off the call.

ooOoo

It was beginning to go dark outside and the street lights were coming on in Baker Street, shining through the windows of 221B, fixing the sitting room with a yellow glow. Sherlock was sitting hunched up in his coat, as he had been all afternoon and ever since Mrs Hudson left, deconstructing the past twenty-four hours and trying to find an alternative solution. But there wasn't one.

He had gone back over the entire timeline, since his return from the dead – all the dramas, all the incidents – and the more he thought about it, the more he knew he had made the right decision. It may be hard right now but Molly would cope. She always did. She was amazing. She would adjust, reorganise and life would go on – with one less thing to worry about – him. He'd been nothing but a drain on her resources ever since he'd decided to move their relationship up a notch. Going AWOL from St Hugh's, getting tasered, the attack by Dame Joan and the long process of rehabilitation and now this latest debacle with Irene. He was just a liability. A liability Molly could do without. She had the boys to consider. In the long run, it was for the best.

He heard the front door open and close and the familiar sound of John Watson coming up the stairs. His friend appeared in the doorway and paused briefly before crossing the floor and sitting down in the chair opposite. John's face was illuminated by the street light from the window whilst his was dark, his form in silhouette.

'What's this all about, mate?' John asked. Sherlock could hear the pain in his voice – pain for him, pain for Molly, pain for himself as the man in the middle.

'It's about what's best for everyone. It's about coming to my senses. It's about damage limitation.'

'Look, man, I know this is none of my business but, as your friend, I have to tell you, you're not in the best position to make rational decisions.'

'Yes, thank you, John. I appreciate your concern but, with respect, you don't know what you're talking about.'

'I'm an ex-army doctor, Sherlock. I've seen a lot of post-traumatic stress. I recognise the symptoms when I see them.'

Sherlock's hands, which were resting on the arms of the chair, clenched into fists, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. Then he stood up, abruptly, and walked out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door. John was taken by surprise by his sudden exit but got up and went to the window, just in time to see his friend get into a cab, which carried him off, into the night.

ooOoo


	24. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** Three**

Mycroft sat in his office, listening to the band of the Grenadier Guards, drilling on Horseguards Parade, in preparation for the forthcoming Trooping the Colour ceremony. There was something about military music that stirred his blood. He really was, as Sherlock was wont to tell him, an anachronism. It was so unfashionable to be patriotic, these days.

He was pleased that Isabelle Galbraith's parents would, at long last, achieve some closure and gain some justice without having to endure a messy trial, during which the manner of their daughter's death would have to be disclosed in all its gory detail. Following their chat, he had left Irene to discuss the options with her solicitor and to mull over the possible consequences of each alternative. It took her three attempts to come up with an acceptable confession.

Initially, she would only admit that she had been advised 'ex post facto' of the manner by which her body double had been acquired. She claimed that, until that point, she believed the girl's death was unrelated to her need to disappear and that it was just fortunate that Isabelle was such a close physical match to her own body type. Mycroft advised her that such a limited confession would not meet his requirements.

She emerged from her next conference with the additional admission that she had been shown photographs of several young women and asked which she thought looked most like herself but that she had no idea why, at the time. Mycroft was not impressed with that offering, either.

On the third attempt, she finally admitted choosing Isabelle's image, from all those on offer, as the most like herself, with the full knowledge that this person would become her body substitute thus, essentially, sealing the girl's fate. This should be enough to secure a conviction for Conspiracy to Murder. Mycroft was satisfied, at last.

However, he had very mixed feelings about the outcome of his 'deal' with Irene Adler. He would have been happiest had she refused. Throwing her to the lions would have given him the greatest of pleasure. He was aware that her co-operation would probably secure her a more lenient sentence but that was beyond his sphere of influence. It should still be in double figures.

He had given all his attention to this matter, for the last two days, so he had some catching up to do at the office and then he would call in on Sherlock and Molly, on his way home, to deliver the news that Irene had capitulated. It would be nice to be the bearer of good tidings, for a change.

ooOoo

Having taken Irene Adler's statement – a full and reasonably frank confession, telling the whole sordid tale of Moriarty's plan to facilitate her disappearance and her part in it – DS Donovan had charged the woman with Conspiracy to Murder and the team had now returned from the local Magistrate's Court, where the presiding official had no hesitation in remanding their suspect in custody and she had been transferred to Holloway Prison, to await her next court appearance.

Sally Donovan was feeling a little cheated. Greg Lestrade could understand why.

'If it's any consolation, Sally, I think you could have nailed her but Mr Holmes decided to play his trump card. The end result was the same.'

It's a matter of principle, sir. We still had this up our sleeve.'

She held up the evidence bag containing the invoice for the newspaper advert. Isabelle Galbraith's brother had sent the newspaper clipping of the advert to them, along with the bikini photograph – his sister had put them both in her portfolio, along with all her other mementos - and it showed not only the name of the newspaper – The Stage, of course – but also the advert's serial number. A visit to the national newspaper's office and the flash of a warrant card had quickly secured a print out of the e-Invoice, for the cost of placing the ad in the 'Castings' section. The person in whose name the ad was placed was a Miss K. Atkinson but the credit card used to pay the bill was in the name of Irene Adler. It was the only tangible piece of evidence they had that Irene was involved with the hunt for her replacement corpse, from the ground level, but it still didn't prove she knew the girl would be killed.

'Just suck it up, Sally. You should be proud of the job you did. You got her rattled, alright. And Mycroft Holmes was impressed. You were mentioned in despatches. I wouldn't be surprised if he were to offer you a job in counter-intelligence, next time a vacancy arises.'

Sally was rather taken with that idea and when Greg Lestrade suggested the whole team take a trip to the local pub, to celebrate their 'result', she was more than happy to go along. After all, Greg was buying.

ooOoo

When Molly arrived back home with Freddie, William was in his bedroom, playing with his newest Lego construction kit, a model of the Starship Enterprise. Sherlock had bought it for him for his birthday and he had assembled and disassembled it several times, since then. It was his favourite toy, at the moment. Marie was putting the finishing touches to preparing the vegetables for the family's evening meal. Molly put Freddie on the floor, in the sitting room, with a selection of toys to keep him occupied, and went through to the kitchen to face the nanny's searching expression.

She explained, as best she could since she didn't really understand it herself, what had happened. She breathed in sharply, as her voice almost cracked but she kept control and took a sip of the cup of tea that Marie had placed in front of her. The nanny was almost beside herself with remorse because it had been she who suggested seeing the rape counsellor in the first place but Molly refused to allow her to shoulder any blame.

'No one's to blame,' she insisted. 'It just happened. When he calms down, thinks it through properly, well….who knows what. But, for now, I just have to keep everything normal for the boys.'

Marie offered to stay and help out but Molly was insistent that she should not. She felt they had imposed on the nanny's good will more than enough recently and, to be honest, she really wanted to be alone with her babies. If this was really how it was going to be from now on, she had to get into a new routine and her scientist's brain was already coming to terms with the logistics of the new family dynamic. Molly was nothing if not practical.

After Marie left, she played with Freddie whilst the supper cooked and then they all sat down to eat together after which, she gave the boys their bath and then sat next to William's bed, suckling Freddie and reading 'The Hobbit' to William. She knew she didn't do the voices as well as Sherlock did them but William didn't seem to mind. He was thrilled with the novelty of having Mummy read to him, since it hadn't really happened since Freddie was born. Freddie fell asleep quite quickly, hardly taking any milk at all but Molly knew there wasn't that much to take. She was barely lactating, now. Another milestone was about to be passed, when Freddie would be weaned. She couldn't allow herself to get upset about that, just at the moment. She had to keep the flood gates closed or they might all get washed away on that wave of emotion.

She finished the chapter and pulled the duvet up to William's chin, leaning over to kiss him good night.

'Good night, Mummy,' he murmured, in a sleepy voice. 'And good night, Freddie,' he added, giving his sleeping baby brother a slightly damp kiss on the forehead.

Cradling Freddie in one arm, Molly walked over to the chest of drawers and picked up the photograph of Sherlock, bringing it back to the bed. William took the frame in both hands and kissed the image, saying,

'Good night, Daddy,' as he used to, while Sherlock was away. She was about to put the picture back on top of the drawers but William pointed to his night stand and said,

'Can Daddy go there, Mummy, so I can talk to him?'

'Of course he can, babe,' she replied and propped the photo up on the bedside cabinet, right next to the little night light. She was about to leave the room, to go and put Freddie in his cot, when William sat up, suddenly, and said,

'Is Daddy alright, Mummy?'

She came back to sit on the edge of her oldest son's bed and stroked his hair.

'You know he's had a lot on his mind, lately?' William nodded, with a serious frown wrinkling his brow.

'Well, he's gone away for a few days so that he can think things through. But he wouldn't want you to worry about him. You're not worried are you?'

'A little bit,' William replied, as his eyes became luminous, with unshed tears, in the dim light from the lamp. 'Because he usually texts or phones when he goes away but he didn't, this time.'

Molly felt mortified.

'Oh, baby, he did! Mummy forgot! Let me just put Freddie in his cot and I'll get my phone and show you.'

She hurried into the room next door and laid the baby gently in his cot, covering him loosely with his duvet then rushed to the sitting room to grab her phone off the coffee table. On the way back, she opened the conversation she had had with Sherlock earlier and deleted the parts she didn't want William to see. In his bedroom, once more, she sat on the bed and hugged the little boy, showing him the edited version:

'What do I tell the boys?'

'I love them.'

William held the phone and read the two texts. He still looked a little unconvinced but he seemed reassured enough to settle down to sleep. Molly kissed him again and left the room, pulling the door to behind her. She returned to the kitchen and began to load the dishwasher, feeling a mixture of anger and despair. It was easy for him to say to tell the boys the truth. She had never lied to William before now and yet, in just one evening, she had lied to him twice. Damn you, Sherlock bloody Holmes!

ooOoo

As John Watson watched the red tail lights of the cab disappear around the corner at the end of the road, he fished out his mobile and speed dialled Mycroft's number.

'Dr Watson?' came the answer.

'Have you heard from Sherlock or Molly?'

'No, I haven't. I was about to go and see them. Why?'

'He's gone rogue again, Mycroft. Something's set him off. He's walked out on Molly and the boys and he's just walked out on me, from Baker Street. In short, it's a Danger Night.'

It took barely a second for Mycroft to process this information and formulate a plan.

'I'll find him, John, but would you go and see Molly, please? Make sure that she and the boys are alright.'

'Of course,' John agreed. Even Mycroft couldn't be in two places at once and if anyone could find Sherlock in London, it was his brother. For all John knew, he had Sherlock tagged. It wouldn't surprise him.

'I'll let you know when I've got him,' the senior Holmes brother assured him and rang off.

John turned away from the window to see Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway to the landing. She had obviously heard John arrive and Sherlock leave.

'Mycroft's sent the hounds after him, Mrs H. He's as good as found,' he reassured her, looking more hopeful than he felt.

ooOoo

When Sherlock got into the cab, he told the cabbie to take him to Waterloo Bridge, then hunched down into his coat and sat brooding on the back seat. The cabbie eyed him in the rear view mirror and decided his passenger would prefer not to chat. The late rush hour traffic was still quite heavy so it took a fair while to reach the bridge. As the cab approached the famous land mark, the cabbie asked,

'Which end, guvnor?'

'The middle,' was his passenger's clipped response.

The cabbie looked in his rear view mirror again.

'Not thinkin' of doin' anythin' dramatic, I hope?' he quipped, with a wary grin.

Sherlock eyed him, morosely, in the mirror.

'If I were, I'm hardly likely to tell you, am I?' he asked, rhetorically.

The cabbie shrugged and pulled up right at the centre point of the bridge. Sherlock gave him a note which covered the fare and then some and got out, slamming the door and walking away, across the pavement, to the parapet. The cabbie watched him for a moment, then decided it was none of his business, really, pulled out into the traffic and drove off, switching on the 'For Hire' sign, as he did.

Sherlock placed his hands on top of the stone parapet of the bridge and looked east, toward Blackfriars and St Paul's Cathedral. It was dark now and the lights of the London skyline were reflected in the dark waters of the Thames. The City always looked beautiful at night.

He could not remember the last time he felt so low. It was probably when he was on the run from St Hugh's but, since he didn't remember very much about that time, or at least not very clearly, he didn't know if it really counted. But one thing he knew for sure. It was true what they said, once an addict, always an addict. One could never use the word 'cured'. When he walked out of Baker Street, he hadn't needed to think where to go. His mouth spoke the words automatically.

And now he was here, in his old stamping ground, he could see at least three dealers plying their wares along the South Bank. It had been such a long time since he had last availed himself of their services and they probably weren't still the same individuals but they still occupied the same pitches. The territories were so clearly defined; he could almost see the boundaries, like an invisible force field.

It would be so easy to stroll along there, palm a note, shake a hand, walk away with the merchandise. But then what? Where would he go? Where did he used to go? Oh, he'd been in some pretty bad places, in his time. Those places still existed – tucked away, off the beaten track, very discreet. Had he really believed that those days were behind him? Those were the days before John, before Lestrade, even – well, not entirely before Lestrade, since that was how they'd met. His life had come full circle, it would seem. How tediously inevitable. Maybe the cabbie had the right idea, after all. More dramatic but a whole lot quicker.

He sensed rather than heard the car draw up to the kerb behind him. Without turning around, he saw, in his mind's eye, the rear door opening and the tall slim figure in the smart three-piece suit and handmade shoes step out and cross the pavement towards him. He didn't bother to turn his head but caught, in his peripheral vision, the hawk-like profile of his brother.

'I wondered how long it would take for you to arrive. Does the Treasury know how much of the tax payers' money you misappropriate just to keep tabs on your close relatives?'

'Probably a cheaper option than scraping you up off the bottom of the Thames,' Mycroft replied.

'Did Molly send you?'

'No, on this occasion it was John.'

Sherlock stood on the bridge, considering his options. He could jump, he could run or he could just get in the car. Unfortunately, no matter how many times he ran them round his head, he couldn't seem to make a choice between them. Eventually, Mycroft decided for him, took him by the arm and steered him into the car. He went, passively, because he didn't have the will to object.

ooOoo

**Huge thanks to all my followers, favouriters and, especially, my reviewers for sticking with this story, despite everything. You are a writer's dream!**


	25. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Super congrats to all the SAMFA winners. It was an honour to be nominated and I am still blown away that people took the trouble to vote. Many thanks!**

**Chapter Twenty**** Four**

Molly had only just finished sorting out the kitchen and had set a load of bed linen going in the washing machine when the front door bell buzzed. For a brief moment, her heart jumped as she thought it might be Sherlock returning but this was immediately followed by the voice of reason asking why he would use the doorbell instead of the key code. She walked through to the hall and saw John's face in the entry phone screen. She buzzed him into the building and went to meet him at the flat door. She accepted and returned his hug, which she knew was heartfelt, and invited him into the sitting room.

'How did your chat go?' she asked, hopeful but not confident that it went well. John gave a wry shrug and shook his head.

'He wasn't in a mood to listen. He walked out and went off in a cab but,' he held up a placatory hand, as he saw her look of concern, 'I called Mycroft and he is looking for him. He said he would ring when he found him.'

'When was that?'

'About half an hour ago. He asked me to come and check on you and the boys.'

'Well, as you can see, we're still here. We haven't disappeared in a puff of smoke or anything,' she replied, with a hint of irony, walking into the kitchen to boil the kettle for tea. He followed her through and sat down at the table.

'Can you tell me what happened?' he asked, aware that, strictly speaking, it was none of his business.

Molly sat on the chair opposite, folded her arms on the table top and breathed a bewildered sigh, reviewing in her mind's eye the events of the critical time period, between the incident at Baker Street and him walking out of the flat. She had thought of little else, especially since the boys had gone to bed and there had been no distractions.

'Oh, John, I'm still trying to sort it out in my own head and when I do you'll be the first to know. I just wish I knew where he was and that he was alright.'

The kettle boiled and she went to get up and make the tea but John waved her down and saw to it himself. He hadn't mentioned his warning to Mycroft about the 'Danger Night'. But she was ahead of him.

'I know he's been clean for a long time but this is just the sort of situation that could tip him over the edge, you know.' She looked across the table and caught the pained look in John's eyes.

'Sorry, John, I forget that you didn't know him when he was using. It must be hard for you to even imagine.'

'I can't imagine it, to be honest, Molly. Even though I can see he has an addictive personality, the idea of him risking his intellect for a quick fix…..'

'Oh, it was never a quick fix for Sherlock, John. He would go for months and months without using, so long as he could keep his mind occupied, but when there was nothing to hold his attention, nothing to tax his brain, he couldn't stand it. We've talked about it, since we've been together. He says it's like being in a sensory deprivation environment. You lose your grip on reality, start to hallucinate, even. That's when he would use – to switch off his brain. I think he might want to switch off his brain right now.' That thought caused Molly to press her hands to her chest, with concern. Before John could respond, his phone gave a chirp. He pulled it out, registered Mycroft's name and opened the text.

'He's safe. Taking him home with me.'

'He's got him.' John breathed a sigh of relief and Molly closed her eyes, imagining a whole scenario behind that bald statement.

'Are you going to be OK, Molly?' he asked, reluctant to leave her alone but needing to get home to his own family.

She smiled and patted his hand.

'I will be, now, John. Thanks for coming round. Give Mary and Lily Rose my love.'

She walked him to the door and they hugged again.

'Get a good night's sleep, Moll. You look as though you need it – oh, shit! Sorry.'

She had to laugh.

'That sounds like the kind of thing I used to say!'

John smiled and then left.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat in the back of the staff car, eyes closed, shoulders hunched, arms crossed in front of him, hands gripping the front panels of his coat, pulling it tight around him like a comfort blanket. The car, travelling so smoothly on perfect suspension and with barely any engine noise, seemed to not be even moving, but for the strobing effect of the street lighting, visible through his eyelids.

Mycroft glanced at his brother with a growing sense of concern. On the bridge, he had watched him lapse into a state of complete inertia. He had seen him like this once before, at a time of extreme personal crisis. He had hoped never to see him like it again. He needed to speak to Molly, John and Mrs Hudson in order to get a clear idea of what had precipitated this emotional collapse.

But that would have to wait until the morning. Right now, the priority was to get him to a place of safety, where he could be looked after. He had taken the precaution of calling his own personal physician and arranged for him to attend Sherlock at the house, on their arrival. He would be advised by his doctor what action to take from there.

As the car pulled up outside the front of the house, at the top of the long, curved driveway, Mycroft noted the doctor's car parked to the right of the front door. He got out of the car and walked around to the other side to open the passenger door.

'Sherlock, we're here,' he said quietly. His brother opened his eyes and looked at him, blankly, then reached round very slowly to unfasten the seatbelt before climbing out of the vehicle. Mycroft took him by the arm and led him toward the front door as it was opened from the inside by Andrew, the butler.

'The doctor is waiting in your study, sir,' Andrew informed him.

'Please ask him to join us in Byron,' Mycroft replied and shepherded Sherlock straight up the stairs and across the landing to the bedroom in question. Andrew turned and went off down the hallway, to do his master's bidding.

ooOoo

Molly sat on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, trying to put together in her head exactly what had caused Sherlock to go off the way he had. She believed it was mostly down to bad timing. They had reacted to Irene's assault in completely the worst way, repeatedly doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. When they should have been comforting one another, taking the time to come to terms with what had happened, they were racing around, gathering evidence for the body double case. She had thought, at the time, he gained comfort from being able to do something proactive but, in truth, it had forced him to suppress his feelings, internalising them, to a place in his sub-conscious where they could do the most damage to his psyche.

When he gave his interview to Patrick Stoeckler, he had relived the whole dreadful incident. Even though he hadn't actually talked about that part, he couldn't avoid thinking about it, reinforcing the damage, providing no resolution. But he had done it because of the time constraints and the need to act quickly.

Confronting Irene at the airport was, in hindsight, a disasterous move. It had been so hard on him. He was in such a terrible state afterwards. The rape counsellor had commented that they did not encourage rape victims to confront their attackers, even months after the event, that the courts now recognised the traumatic nature of such confrontations and allowed victims to present their evidence by video link, so that they didn't even have to be in the same building as the culprit.

When he had, at last, told her about what happened, she felt that actually helped him but it had traumatised her. She had watched the video so that she could diminish its power over him but it had been a devastating experience for her, none the less. She believed that Irene had invented the pregnancy and abortion story, just to play with his mind. It had worked. He would never know, for sure, whether that was true or not. And the fact that he had put himself in a vulnerable situation with the woman, through his own negligence, was painful for both of them.

It should have been obvious to her, the night before, how distraught he was about being a burden to her. He had made that so clear – condemning himself for being arrogant and selfish, for taking advantage of her. If only she had picked up on those signals but she was too emotionally compromised herself. She could see, now, that blackmailing him into coming with her to the SARU appointment was a huge error of judgement. She should have known it was a step too far, particularly at that stage, when he was still so raw. He was a very private person and barely opened up to close friends, let alone a complete stranger. She knew that but her own need had over-ridden her natural empathy for him.

She saw that she had over-reacted to his comment 'I should go'. As she reviewed the actual content of the conversation prior to that, she realised he was simply expressing regret and guilt. When she had said 'Are you leaving me?' he had looked surprised. It had not even occurred to him or been his intention to 'leave', in the sense of abandonment, up to that point. He just needed to escape the immediate situation because he couldn't cope with all the conflicting emotions. She had planted that idea in his head, at a time when he was particularly vulnerable. She was convinced that, had she just let him leave, go to Baker Street, sort out his feelings and his thoughts, he would be back home by now.

It was a litany of errors.

He had accused himself of not changing enough. Didn't he realise that she didn't want him to change? She loved him for who he was. In her eyes, he was already perfect. A perfect partner, a perfect father, a perfect him. He said he used her as a security blanket. But he made her feel so safe, so loved, so appreciated. He was loyal, steadfast, devoted to her and the boys. It would have torn out his heart to contemplate leaving his family. She could not bear to think how he must be feeling now. Thank god Mycroft had found him before he did anything irretrievable.

She was desperate to know what was happening now but she knew that Sherlock's brother would ring her as soon as he could, that he would know how much she needed news. She just had to wait. And pray. Fortunately, she did not have to wait long. Her phone rang out with Mycroft's ringtone.

'Molly, how are you?'

'I'm OK, Mycroft. I just need to know that he is, too.'

The hesitation before answering did not bode well.

'Molly, he's really not well. My doctor has sedated him and says he needs complete rest for the moment. He has recommended he remain sedated for a few days.'

'Oh, god, Mycroft, I should have seen this coming, shouldn't I?'

'I will not allow you to take any blame for this, Molly. If anyone should have seen this coming, it is I. After all, I know him better than anyone. I know how he deals with extreme emotional stress – or rather how he doesn't deal with it. But this isn't the time for recriminations. We need to rally round and do the best we can to resolve this situation as quickly as possible.'

'What do you need me to do?' she asked, earnestly.

'Just be here for him, please?' There was an edge of pleading to Mycroft's voice that few people had ever heard. This was the second time that Molly had heard it. It only confirmed to her just how much he cared for his brother.

'Of course, I will. I couldn't be anywhere else.'

'You don't need to come immediately. He won't know whether you are here or not for a day or two but, after that, I think that having you and the boys around will be the best medicine possible.'

It was agreed that a car would come for them on Friday evening and that they would stay at least for the weekend and then see how things were, after that. Molly hung up, went to check that William and Freddie were sleeping soundly and then went to bed herself. The bed felt cold and over-sized, in Sherlock's absence. She hoped, fervently, that this would be a temporary state of affairs. She dragged his pillow across the bed and hugged it to her chest, pressing her face into it, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin, his essence.

'Come back to me,' she whispered and hoped that somehow her plea would fly the distance between them and that his soul would catch it.

ooOoo


	26. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** Five**

By the next morning, Molly had made a decision. She did not suckle Freddie. She got up, showered and dressed, woke William and Freddie, gave them their breakfast cereal, washed and dressed Freddie, whilst William took care of himself, and left the flat at eight thirty, to drop William at school and then take Freddie to the crèche before going to work herself. This is do-able, she thought to herself. If she did have to be a single parent again, she knew she could manage the practical side of things. It was the emotional side that would be difficult, if not impossible, to sustain.

Freddie didn't even seem to notice that she had just severed the final strand of the umbilical. William, on the other hand, ever the observer, did.

'Mummy, doesn't Freddie like mummy-milk any more?' he asked, over breakfast.

'He doesn't really need my milk now. He needs to eat normal food.'

Molly wondered whether it had been such a good idea to stop just now but it did make the morning routine easier to cope with. She just hoped there were no negative repercussions, in the future. Looking at Freddie's cheerful expression, she didn't think she need worry on that score. Nothing seemed to faze the little tyke. His temperament was so different to William's. The older boy was his father's son, in so many ways.

She had not been at work long when her phone rang with its generic ring tone. That precluded immediate family and closest friends. She took it from her pocket and saw the caller's number was blocked.

'Hello?' she answered, enquiringly. The voice that responded was that of Greg Lestrade.

'Oh, Molly, hi. Sorry to bother you at work but I have a bit of a favour to ask.'

'Ask away, Greg. If I can do it, I will,' she replied.

'The Galbraith family are coming down to London tomorrow to collect Isabelle's body and take her home for burial. The Coroner has released the body. Adler's legal team have waived the right to a second PM. They've accepted your original report without reservation.'

'Should I be relieved?' she asked, thinking they would have a damn nerve to question her PM report. She was, first and foremost, a professional.

'Not at all, Molly. I wouldn't have expected anything less. You are a bloody good pathologist. But that isn't why I called. The Galbraith's have asked to meet the team who identified their daughter and helped to catch her killer. That includes you, Sherlock and John Watson. So I'm just wondering if you might be able to come over, about lunch time? It shouldn't take more than about half an hour.'

Molly was a little torn. She could appreciate why the family would want to meet the people who had ended their terrible ordeal of ignorance and she was accustomed to dealing with grieving relatives but this case was so personal. She wondered whether she would be able to maintain her usual professional detachment.

'Sherlock won't be able to be there, for sure, Greg,' she began.

'No, I didn't expect him to come. It's not really his area, is it? He's not the most tactful soul.'

Molly chose not to pursue that topic.

'I can probably fit it in during my lunch break. Obviously, I can't speak for John. You'll need to ask him directly.'

'No, that's fine, Molly. Thanks for that. With you on board, I'm sure John will be willing to join in, if he's free.'

'What time are the family expected?' she asked, so that she could work it into her schedule.

'Twelve thirty. Is that OK?'

Molly assured him it was. She said goodbye, promising to see him the next day, and hung up.

ooOoo

Molly arrived at NYS at twelve fifteen the next day and made her way to Lestrade's department. The two rooky PC's, who had helped with the research side of things, were present, dressed in their smartest uniforms, looking nervous and self-conscious. Greg Lestrade greeted Molly and invited her into his office.

'Is John coming?' she asked, as she sat down in the chair indicated by the DI.

'Yes, he said he would, barring a dire emergency at St Mary's. Molly, why didn't you tell me what had happened?' Greg asked, with a mixture of regret and embarrassment.

'In what context?' she enquired, wondering just how much John had divulged, conceding that Greg was both his and Sherlock's friend.

'You and Sherlock….splitting up,' he mumbled.

Molly was stung by the finality of that phrase and she felt the tears starting in her eyes. Greg was instantly mortified and came round the desk to hug her.

'God, Molly, I'm so sorry. That was really blunt of me,' he apologised.

'No, Greg, it's OK. It's just that we haven't 'split up' completely. It's kind of complicated. I can understand why John told you we had, especially since Mrs H told him what Sherlock told her, but Sherlock is not being very rational at the moment so nothing is final.'

'Well, I'm really glad to hear that. I might have over-interpreted what John said so, please, don't blame him.'

'I don't blame anybody,' she reassured him. 'Any way, I better turn off the lacrimal glands before the Galbraith's get here or it'll be like Alice in Wonderland here! I'll flood the place out!'

As if right on cue, DS Donovan appeared in the doorway to announce that Isabelle's family had arrived and were waiting in the incident room. John had not arrived yet but the rest of the team were present, so Lestrade led the way to the second floor, to meet the visitors.

As they entered the room, the family stood up to greet them. Molly was struck, first of all, by the all-pervading air of sadness that emanated from the four people in the room. She could see the familial resemblance between Mrs Galbraith and her late daughter. In her early fifties, the mother was beginning to show some grey in her dark brown hair but she had the fine bone structure and full lips that had marked Isabelle as a Highland beauty.

Mr Galbraith and his son, Charlie, looked every inch the lobster fishermen. They were wiry, strong and weather-beaten. Charlie's wife, Teresa, was fair and rosy-cheeked and about six months pregnant, in Molly's estimation. This family, like Isabelle, were innocent victims of Irene and Moriarty's scheming. Molly felt a fierce sense of satisfaction for the part she had been able to play in bringing them some justice.

Greg had just completed the introductions when John arrived, breathless and flustered.

'And this is Dr John Watson, Mr Holmes' personal assistant,' John raised his eyebrows at that description but couldn't think of a better alternative. He shook hands with all the family members. Charlie Galbraith then spoke on behalf of the family.

'We just wanted this opportunity to thank you all for what you did for our Isabelle. If not for you, we would never have known what became of her and we would not have been able to take her home. At least now, we'll know where she is and we'll be able to visit her, on birthdays and Christmas and the like. We're just sorry that Mr Holmes couldn't be here. We were so honoured that the famous detective could be bothered to look for our Isabelle. We hope that you'll pass on our heartfelt thanks to him.'

Everyone was silenced by that touching speech, given in such a humble manner, but Greg Lestrade was the first to find his voice. Clearing his throat, he thanked Charlie for his kind words and assured him that he would pass on their appreciation to Sherlock. Sally then invited everyone to help themselves to tea or coffee from the table that had been laid out at the side of the room and the people in the room began to mingle and talk together. Before long, Molly found herself being addressed by Mrs Galbraith.

'Dr Hooper, I understand it was you who examined my Isabelle, when she was first brought in?'

Molly confirmed that with a nod and a nervous smile. She was privately dreading what the next question might be.

'Can you tell me, please, did my darling girl suffer?'

Molly's experience in dealing with the relatives of the recently deceased came to her aid. At times like this, a blatant lie was always best. There was nothing to be gained from brutal honesty.

'No, Mrs Galbraith. It would have been very quick. She probably knew nothing about it.'

The lady looked thankful but not totally relieved. She went on.

'But we've been told it has to be a closed coffin because of the nature of her injuries. And my husband has read your post mortem report but he wouldn't let me read it.'

Molly licked her lips, as she chose her words carefully.

'Your daughter's injuries were mostly inflicted after she died, Mrs Galbraith,' she lied again.

The older lady enveloped her in a grateful embrace, which Molly reciprocated. As they separated, the older lady asked,

'Are you a mother, Dr Hooper?'

Molly nodded.

'Yes, I have two boys.'

'Oh, I love my son,' the lady smiled, 'but a daughter is such a blessing.'

'Yes, I'm sure that's true,' Molly agreed.

'Maybe next time?' Mrs Galbraith suggested.

'Yes, maybe.' Molly replied, with a wistful smile.

ooOoo

Sherlock wished everyone would just go away and leave him alone. He didn't want to be bothered with anything or anyone. Answering questions and making choices required thinking and thinking was not high on his list of priorities, at the moment. In fact 'not thinking' was actually at the top of that list, a point that pretty much precluded every other option.

But, despite this, some annoying person persisted in coming in and disturbing him, every five minutes. Had Mycroft fitted a revolving door to this room, or what? Did he want something to eat? Did he need a drink? Did he need to use the bathroom? Take this medication, take that medication, now take this again. How much medication did he need to take? Not that he was complaining. The more the better, if it kept his head full of cotton wool and stopped his brain from functioning.

He had a vague idea that he knew this person but confirming or refuting that hypothesis would require thought and that was off the agenda. Still, whoever they may or may not be, they were back again, already.

'Sherlock, sit up and drink this,' the familiar voice said.

'No, go away.'

'I'll go away just as soon as you sit up and drink this.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' he mumbled, irritably, pushing himself up on one elbow, assisted by two strong hands.

'That's it, good man,' the voice encouraged, as he sipped the liquid through a straw.

Actually, the water was cool and very refreshing. His mouth had been quite dry, he realised, despite the fact that he'd had a drink only a few minutes ago. Having drunk his fill, he pushed the cup away and lay down again, rolling over and curling up into a ball. Maybe the annoying person would leave him in peace, now.

ooOoo

Molly spent the rest of the time chatting with Mrs Galbraith about her life in the village of Helmsdale, in Sutherland, and her job as a volunteer at the Timespan Geological Museum. She told the lady that she had never been to that part of the country and Mrs Galbraith insisted that, if she ever did, she must drop by to say hello. Molly said she would love to do that.

'And bring your wee boys, Dr Hooper, and your husband, too. You will all be more than welcome.'

Molly thanked the older lady and then took her leave, explaining that she needed to get back to work and tackle a large stack of paperwork, before the week end. The gathering was breaking up anyway, as John needed to return to work, too, so everyone said their goodbyes and Sally took the family off to Westminster Public Mortuary, to take possession of Isabelle's mortal remains.

John walked Molly out of the building. Once they were in the lift, alone, he turned to her with an earnest expression.

'Molly, I am so sorry…' he began but she raised her hand to interrupt him.

'It's fine, John, really. I know things looked really bad the other night but I've had time to calm down and I've realised that he never meant it to be a permanent separation. He just needed space to think and sort his head out. I over-reacted and then it all got out of hand.'

'I should have checked with you before I said anything, though. It wasn't my place to be spreading rumours.'

'Telling Greg Lestrade is hardly spreading rumours, is it? He wouldn't tell anyone. He's very discrete. I mean, he's had marital problems of his own, so he knows what it's like.'

'Yes that's true but I'm still sorry.'

'Don't be, John. You're a good friend to both of us.'

'So, are you going to see him?'

'Yes, the boys and I are going out to Hertfordshire this evening. Mycroft says he's been under heavy sedation but they are going to start reducing the dose, today, so he should be more alert by tomorrow.'

'Ok, well, give him my best. I'm on nights, next week, so I might be able to manage a visit one afternoon, if he's in the mood for visitors.'

'I'm sure he's always glad to see you, John. You're his wing man.'

They reached street level and parted, with a hug, John returning to St Mary's and Molly to St Bart's, both back to work.

ooOoo


	27. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** Six**

Mycroft closed the door to Sherlock's room and made his way downstairs to the Summer Drawing Room, where the family was gathered, awaiting the dinner bell. He had been visiting his brother regularly during the two days he had been staying in the house and had found him, on this occasion as on all the others, withdrawn and unresponsive. This was partly due to the medication, so he wasn't unduly concerned. The doctor had recommended this course of action, explaining that, as when individuals had suffered a physical trauma and were placed in an induced coma to facilitate recovery, although Sherlock's trauma had been emotional, he still needed respite from the intense stress and had recommended a period of heavy sedation.

Mycroft had discussed this suggestion with Eve Matthews, who was familiar with his brother's history of substance abuse, and she had been able to recommend a non-addictive antidepressant with sedative properties, which was indicated for use with addicts or recovering addicts. The doctor had been happy to prescribe that particular medication.

As Mycroft crossed the front hall, he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching the house. Looking out of the window, he saw that it was his own car, bringing Molly and the boys to spend the weekend. He opened the front door and stepped outside to greet them, as Andrew appeared from the butler's pantry, to collect their luggage.

The car drew to a halt, opposite the front door and the chauffeur climbed out and opened the rear passenger door. William was the first to emerge and ran to hurl himself at his uncle, who swung him into the air and settled him in the crook of his arm, to say an enthusiastic hello.

'Is Daddy here?' William asked, immediately.

'He is, William. He's not very well, at the moment but I'm sure that seeing you will cheer him up no end,' Mycroft assured him.

Placing the somewhat mollified child back on the ground, he stepped forward to welcome Molly, who had just taken Freddie out of his car seat and was turning to greet him.

'My word, Freddie, you have been in the wars,' Mycroft exclaimed, on seeing, for the first time, the yellowing bruise on the baby's forehead.

'Yes, although, fortunately, he bounced. Unfortunately, I didn't,' Molly remarked, wryly.

Mycroft placed his hands on her upper arms and gave her a peck on each cheek.

'I will not hear any self-recrimination. You've had a lot to cope with and you've done it admirably,' Mycroft insisted. He reached out and took Freddie from her, smiling brightly at the chuckling baby, and led them all into the house.

'Andrew will take your luggage to your suite. You're in Nelson, Molly, and the boys are in Hamilton. Sherlock is in Byron and there is someone I'd like you to meet, who's been taking care of him, these last two days.'

He had reached the door to the Summer Drawing Room but before he opened it, he turned to Molly and said, with a smile which was at the same time both embarrassed and proud,

'Sorry about the mess. The children do like to put their own stamp on the environment.'

He opened the door and stood to the side to allow Molly and William to enter ahead of him. Molly could not help but be amused and delighted by what she found inside. The previously elegant drawing room had been transformed into a child's paradise, by the simple expedient of removing the cushions from most of the seats and piling them all in the middle of the rug.

Mycroft's twins, Kate and Charlie, were engaged in an energetic game of rolling around in the pile of soft furnishings and hurling the cushions at one another and around the floor, from whence they were retrieved by Michele, the nanny on duty, and tossed back onto the pile, so that the game was self-perpetuating. Judging from the shrieks and giggles emanating from the two babies, it was a game they never tired of.

When Freddie saw what was going on, he began to shriek and giggle also and to wriggle, frantically, to be put down. Mycroft strode across the floor, announcing the arrival of Cousin Freddie and Cousin William as he went, and plonked the former down in the middle of the melee, where he immediately engaged with the general idea of the game by picking up a pink satin cushion and tossing it over his head. Kate and Charlie paused, momentarily, to process the inclusion of Freddie in the mix, then both resumed the squealing and hurling, with gusto.

'Just trying to tire them out,' Mycroft explained, 'although, to be honest, it rarely seems to achieve that aim. But they do love to play rough.'

William stood back, observing the chaos with a look of abject horror, not least due to the extreme noise levels, with three babies squealing at the tops of their voices. Molly was quick to acknowledge his discomfort and said to the proud father, over the racket,

'Perhaps William could sit in the library, look at a book?'

'Oh, of course!' Mycroft agreed. 'You know where it is, don't you, William?'

The little boy nodded and slipped, gratefully, out of the room. What he really would have liked to do was to go and see his father but he knew that, if Mummy hadn't suggested it yet, then it mustn't be the right time, so he resigned himself to waiting. He walked down the hallway to the library, pushing open the solid oak door and walking in.

William loved books. He loved the smell of them, the feel of them and the weight of them. Some of Uncle Mycroft's books were really old, First Editions, he had been told, which meant that they were amongst the first copies of that book ever printed, when they had just been written. He knew that, amongst these first editions, were at least two books by Charles Dickens, one by Mark Twain and another by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He not only loved the books but he also loved the names of the authors, like JRR Tolkien, who wrote his current favourite, The Hobbit, and Roald Dahl, who wrote another of his favourites, The Big Friendly Giant.

He crossed the room to the set of shelves between the floor-to-ceiling sash windows, looking for a particular book. He found it easily because he knew exactly where it would be. He put his finger at the top of the spine and pulled it out. It was a hardback book with a green cover. The title was embossed in gold on the spine. It read,

'Peter Pan or The Boy Who Would Not Grow Up by J M Barrie'

This was not a First Edition but, to William, it was very precious. He opened the front cover and looked at the first leaf, which was blank except for some writing done in a very neat hand.

'This book belongs to Sherlock Holmes.'

And under that, it said,

'Happy Fifth Birthday from your brother, Mycroft.'

He sat and looked at the hand written legend and ran his hand over the page. This was Daddy's own favourite book and, therefore, the most special book in the world.

ooOoo

As Molly and Mycroft stood smiling at the antics of the three youngest Holmeses, the drawing room door opened again and a tall, well build young man with a pleasant face and a military bearing came in.

'Ah, Molly,' Mycroft began, 'this is the person I wanted you to meet. This is Arthur Davenport. He's been looking after Sherlock for the last two days. Arthur, this is Molly Hooper.'

Molly offered her hand to the young man and he shook it whilst, at the same time, giving a sort of nodding bow, as though he were being introduced to royalty, which made her want to giggle but she managed to resist the urge. As it was impossible to conduct a conversation with the noisy play going on in the room, Mycroft suggested they go to his study. Molly agreed, knowing that Freddie would be fine on his own. He had visited his cousins on many occasions and knew the nannies well.

Once seated in Mycroft's study, the host explained Arthur's significance.

'Arthur worked with Sherlock when he was at St Hugh's. They have very kindly loaned him to me, for as long as we need him.'

Arthur gave a self-deprecating smile and added,

'Yes, I thought we got on quite well, at least until he took me off into the woods, head butted me and stole my clothes and phone.'

'Oh, goodness, I am so sorry about that,' Molly apologised, feeling embarrassed on Sherlock's behalf.

'Oh, don't be,' Arthur laughed and went on in his pleasant Lancashire accent, 'I know it wasn't personal and he did leave me his coat and my pager. And I got all my gear back, eventually.'

'Well, you don't seem the type to bear a grudge, Mr Davenport, since you wouldn't be here if you were. I think we're very lucky to have you.'

'I'm more than happy to be here. And, please call me Arthur. When you say Mr Davenport, I keep looking round for my dad!'

'So, how has he been, Arthur? Sherlock I mean,' she asked, feeling the strain that the answer to that question could engender.

'He's been very quiet, withdrawn. The medication does make him sleep a lot but, even when he's awake, he doesn't want to talk or be bothered with anyone. Getting him to eat has been a bit of a battle but he is drinking regularly.'

Nothing unexpected there, thought Molly.

'How does he seem compared to when you knew him before?' she ventured, although she thought she knew the answer.

'Well, obviously, he is less communicative but he's still the same person, basically. Before, he went into hiding physically, by running away. At the moment, he's in hiding emotionally. He's run away into his head. What we need to do is convince him that it's safe to come out.'

Molly considered what the army nurse had said and she could see some truth in it. Sherlock was in hiding and he wouldn't come out until he felt sufficiently motivated, that it was worth his while. He needed to find a reason to make the effort.

'Thank you, Arthur. I'm very grateful for your candour. When can I see him?' she asked.

'Well, he had his last dose of medication at four this afternoon so he's pretty out of it at the moment but he will start to wake up at about eight o'clock, this evening, so that would be a good time, if you wanted to be able to talk to him.'

Molly nodded. She had hoped it would be sooner.

'William will want to see him before he goes to bed. I suppose that's alright, isn't it?'

'I'm sure that would be absolutely fine. He might be more responsive to his children than he would be to adults, to be fair. He would be more open to them, if you get my drift.'

Molly did get his drift and she heartily agreed with him. If anyone could coax Sherlock from his hiding place, it would be William.

Just then, the dinner bell sounded so the adults rose and went to collect the children then went to eat their evening meal.

ooOoo

Following dinner, which was quite a riotous affair, with three very chatty babies in the mix, it was bath time for the younger generation. Mycroft and Michele took Kate and Charlie back to the Nursery and Molly took William and Freddie to the Nelson/Hamilton suite, with its shared Jack and Jill bathroom. When both boys were in their pyjamas, Molly took them along the landing to Byron, as arranged with Arthur, over dinner.

She tapped on the door and waited for Arthur to answer. He opened the door and ushered them in, closing it behind them. Molly's eyes were immediately drawn to the hump in the bed. Sherlock was curled up with his back to the door, only his hair visible above the top of the duvet. He did not react to them entering the room. He showed no sign at all that he was even aware that they were there.

William looked up at his mother, an unspoken question in his eyes. Molly nodded and smiled and gave him a gentle nudge, giving permission for him to approach the bed. He walked round to the other side and, lifting the edge of the duvet, rested his elbows on the mattress. There was still no response from the sleeping man. William reached out a hand and touched his father's cheek, feeling the rough bristles of a two day beard.

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and the two pairs of almond eyes gazed at one another. Then, very slowly, Sherlock reached out and put his hand around the back of William's head, threading his fingers through the tousled curls. William needed no further encouragement. He climbed onto the bed and snuggled into his father's chest. Sherlock wrapped his arm around the boy and breathed in the scent of his hair. Neither spoke a word, since words seemed surplus to requirements.

Freddie was falling asleep in Molly's arms so she turned to Arthur and mouthed that she was going to take her youngest child and put him to bed. The nurse nodded and gestured that he would sit in the arm chair, in the corner and just keep an eye on Sherlock and William. Molly slipped out of the room and carried Freddie back to Hamilton, placing him gently into the big antique bed and laying one of the fat bolster pillows between him and the edge of the bed, just in case he felt the urge to roll about in the night. Having settled him into bed, she left the room and returned to Byron.

When she entered, Arthur stood up and came across to whisper,

'I think they're both asleep. They haven't moved since you left.'

Molly looked at the time. It was seven o'clock. If Sherlock would be waking in an hour, she was happy to leave William with his father until then. She thought it could only be a good thing for Sherlock to awaken and find his son there. As for William, not seeing Sherlock for two days had been difficult. He needed this contact time, too. The door opened and Mycroft slipped in, curious to learn how his brother had responded to seeing his sons. Molly beckoned him out onto the landing and explained the situation.

'Well, if you are happy to leave him under Arthur's watchful eye, there are a few things I'd like to talk about with you,' Mycroft requested. Molly nodded and, turning to Arthur who was standing in the doorway, she asked,

'Are you OK with that?'

He shrugged and smiled his assurance so she followed Mycroft down the stairs as the nurse moved back into the room and closed the door.

Once they were seated in Mycroft's study, he opened the conversation with a question.

'Does Sherlock ever talk to you about our parents?'

Molly shook her head.

'He hardly ever mentions his childhood. I guessed that he didn't have a very good relationship with your mother and father.'

Mycroft nodded in agreement but qualified her assumption.

'It really wasn't his fault. For some reason, neither of our parents took much interest in him. Father was very busy with his glittering career and Mummy was equally busy with her glittering social life. Sherlock was a bit of an after-thought, you see, and they had both moved on from parenting mode.'

'I had sort of worked that out, from the odd comment he made. We have talked about his relationship with you and how your parents' lack of interest in him put a lot of responsibility on your shoulders,' Molly elaborated.

Mycroft pursed his lips into a thin line.

'I don't think it helped our relationship, I grant you. But, thankfully, we seem to have retrieved that, to some extent, though it has taken half a lifetime. However, I only raise this matter in order to shed some light on Sherlock's current situation.'

Molly clasped her hands together and leaned slightly forward, feeling that she was about to learn something of enormous significance; to be given a new insight into the man she loved, the father of her children. It was clear from Mycroft's body language and facial expression that he was thinking very carefully about how to phrase this revelation.

'Has he ever told you why he dropped out of Sydney Sussex?'

'Not exactly, no,' she replied. 'He sort of inferred that it was because of his substance abuse.'

Mycroft gave a grim smile.

'That is typical of him. He can be very economical with the truth. It is true that his substance abuse did get out of hand around that time but that was more the effect than the cause. No, the real reason why he didn't go back to Cambridge for his third year, and also the reason why his using increased, was because our parents died during the summer recess.'

Molly was deeply shocked. She had known Sherlock for more than ten years, now, and had been in a close relationship for almost three years and yet there was so much, she realised, that she still didn't know about him. She had never pressed him on the reasons why he had never completed his degree, though it did rankle with her that such a brilliant mind did not have a single formal qualification to his name.

Neither had she pushed him to talk about the deaths of his parents. She assumed that either, one day, he would decide to tell her or she would just never know. It had occurred to her to Google them and find out for herself how and when they each passed away but that seemed like a betrayal of trust so she had not taken that option. Now, she almost wished she had.

'Oh, God, Mycroft, I had no idea. I didn't even know they both died at the same time. Was it some sort of accident?'

'Probably, Molly, though we really don't know, even to this day. My father was on a diplomatic mission in South America. My mother went with him. She didn't always but she loved the more exotic places and she had never been to Ecuador or Peru and this mission included both so it was irresistible. Normally, it would have been unheard of for Mummy to leave London during the Summer Season. She was quite put out that the two clashed but the mission was a once in a lifetime opportunity and, as she put it, the Summer Season would still be there next year. Which, of course, it was – though she wasn't.'

'So what happened, Mycroft? How did they die?' Molly asked, feeling a surge of sympathy for both these men who, despite enjoying a hugely privileged up-bringing, had experienced an inordinate amount of pain and loss.

'It was a plane crash. They had completed the Ecuador leg of the trip and were flying from Quito to Lima, in a private plane. It disappeared off the radar, over a remote area, mountainous and covered in thick jungle. It took nearly three weeks to find the wreckage and, during that time, Sherlock and I were encouraged to be positive and hope that they had somehow survived. I chose to play along with that notion, just to be polite, really. Sherlock, however, insisted that there wasn't a cat in Hell's chance that they were still alive and went on a huge bender. I bailed him out of a number of very awkward situations, during those three weeks.'

'Oh, Mycroft, poor you! Poor both of you! How dreadful!' Molly declared, reaching out to squeeze Mycroft's arm. He acknowledged her concern by patting her hand.

'When the news finally came that they had found the wreckage and there were no survivors, Sherlock just crashed. He simply shut down, didn't speak, didn't move, wouldn't eat or drink. I had him admitted to a private clinic. He couldn't even attend the funeral, although, to be frank, that was a bit of a sham. There really wasn't much to bury. The bodies had been scavenged and the remains – what they could find, at least - were scattered over quite a wide area. They gathered up what they could, the search and rescue people.'

'So, how long did it take him to recover?' Molly asked.

'He was treated as an in-patient for six weeks then he came home, but, after two weeks, it was obvious he wasn't coping. He was readmitted for a further four weeks and when he came home, I employed a resident nurse to care for him. Needless to say, he thought the nurse was a spy, reporting his every move back to me – which they were, in a way, but not in the way he thought.'

Mycroft stopped talking, lost in thoughts and memories. Molly sat still and waited for him to resume. After a few moments, he did.

'When I found him on the bridge, the night before last, I think he had been waiting for me to come. He seemed relieved when I arrived. I watched him withdraw into himself. It was exactly like the day we heard the news that our parents were dead.'

He looked so desolate, Molly felt an irresistible the urge to cross the short distance between them and hug him, so she did. He accepted her embrace with gratitude and, when they drew apart, he smiled and squeezed her hand.

His mobile phone cheeped and he took it out and read the text.

'Ah, it would appear he's waking up. Shall we go and see him?'

Molly nodded and turned to leave the room but then turned back to him.

'Thank you, Mycroft. Not just for telling me all this but, also, for being such a good friend to Sherlock. He does appreciate it, you know, even though he's not very good at showing it.'

'Yes, I know he does. He shows it in his own way, just as he does everything else.'

ooOoo


	28. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** Seven**

Sherlock thought he might be hallucinating. He had felt the touch on his cheek, though it was very light and tentative. But, when he opened his eyes, he began to doubt himself. Reaching out his hand, he half expected the image to evaporate but, instead, he felt the soft curls of his son's hair. He still reserved judgment. Tactile hallucinations are supposed to be fictional, thought up by playwrights, for dramatic effect but he couldn't rule them out completely. However, when the vision climbed into bed with him and cuddled up to his chest, he allowed himself to believe. It really was William. He enclosed the child in the circle of his arm and held him close, breathing in the scent of his hair and feeling an overwhelming sense of peace, as he drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find the child still there, one arm wrapped round his neck, a cheek pressed to his collarbone, two knees pressed against his ribs. He stroked his hand down the boy's back and turned to look around the room. The man sitting in the chair was familiar to him and he knew that, given time, he would be able to put a name to the face. For the moment, he had the advantage because the watcher was distracted by something in his hand – a mobile phone – and so had become the watched. This didn't last long, as the man looked up and smiled a greeting, then stood up and came round the bed.

'Do you need a drink?'

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbow, very carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping child. Arthur picked up the beaker from the bedside table and held it out to him. He took it in his free hand and, ignoring the straw, took a deep draught from the rim.

'No prizes for guessing whose kiddie he is. He's the spitting image of you,' Arthur commented, inclining his head toward William.

Having drunk the entire contents of the beaker, Sherlock held it out and the nurse took it. He laid his head back on the pillow, adjusting William's position in the crook of his arm as the little boy moved to settle himself, comfortably, without waking up. Sherlock raised his hand to rub his own face and felt the stubble on his chin and cheeks. He must have been here for about two days, judging from the amount of growth.

His thought processes felt quite sluggish but it didn't take an Einstein to work out that, if William was here, Molly would be, too. He felt the need to see her as a visceral pain but, at the same time, the idea distressed him. He was not sure he could bear the look of acceptance and forgiveness that he knew would be in her eyes. He didn't deserve it. That thought made him curl around William, shutting out the world again.

He heard the door open behind him but he didn't want to turn around to see who it was. He could hear voices talking, quietly, but could not tell what they were saying. He wasn't terribly interested in finding out. But the next voice he heard was Mycroft's and it was right next to the bed.

'Sherlock, I'm going to take William to bed, now. Molly's come to see you.'

Sherlock lifted the corner of the duvet, so that his brother could reach down and scoop up the sleeping child, then pulled the duvet back over his head. The door opened and closed again, marking Mycroft's exit from the room. Moments later, he felt someone move a chair up to the bed and he tensed, knowing it was Molly, waiting for her to speak.

'You don't have to talk, if you don't want to, but please listen to me, Sherlock.'

Here it comes, he thought.

_I'm so sorry, I should have known better, I know you didn't mean it, nobody blames you._

No, no, no! Every word was like a punch in the gut.

_You are who you are, I wouldn't want you any other way._

The only thing worse than acceptance and forgiveness was pity.

_I love you for being you_

Oh, god, please stop talking!

He rolled over, away from her and curled up even tighter, in an attempt to block out the sound – not of her voice, just the words. He couldn't handle the words. Miraculously, it seemed to work. She stopped talking.

ooOoo

Having placed William into bed, next to his little brother, Mycroft came back out onto the landing to find Arthur leaning on the balustrade of the landing, opposite the door to Byron. He had left the room to give Molly and Sherlock some privacy.

'Would you care to join me for a glass of something, Arthur?' Mycroft asked.

The army nurse smiled and nodded. He had not had any 'free' time since he arrived, almost forty eight hours ago. He was quite grateful that his patient's wife could take over for a few minutes. He followed Mycroft Holmes down the stairs and to his study.

Arthur had heard about places like this, he had read about them and he had seen them on the TV, usually in period dramas. He had never imagined that anyone actually lived like this. He knew Mycroft Holmes by reputation. He was spoken of in respectful terms, at St Hugh's. Whenever he visited – which was not that often – everyone focused that bit better, moved that bit faster and worked that bit harder. Having been in close proximity to the man for the last two days, he sensed the power of his intellect and the natural authority that he exuded.

What he hadn't anticipated was how polite and accommodating the man would be, welcoming him into his home and making him feel appreciated, just for doing his job. Arthur had noticed how all the house staff respected and admired their boss. Their loyalty was palpable. Unlike the other staff, apart from the nannies, Arthur took his meals with the family and felt enormously privileged to do so.

Mycroft had been working from home, since he brought Sherlock back to the house, so he and Arthur had spent quite a bit of time in conversation, at mealtimes. Mr Holmes had proven to be very good company, very knowledgeable on a lot of subjects and in possession of an acerbic wit.

For his part, Mycroft had been pleasantly surprised to find that the Army nurse from Lancashire was extremely well-read, very clued up on current affairs and a closet opera buff, so they were never stuck for something to talk about. But this was the first time Arthur had been invited into the inner sanctum of Mycroft's study for a 'wee dram' of finest single malt. He felt quite honoured.

Once they were settled in the leather wing chairs, either side of the fire grate – unlit, due to the time of year – with a glass of the amber liquid in hand, Mycroft opened the conversation.

'Has he said anything, yet?'

'Not apart from 'go away,' in its many variations, no, sir.'

'Please, Arthur, inside this room and, since we're both off duty, I'd prefer you call me Mycroft.'

Arthur nodded and was tempted to say 'You're the boss' but thought that degree of familiarity was a quip too far.

'When is his next dose of medication due?'

'Ten o'clock, s…..Mycroft.' This would take a bit of getting used to.

'Well, he responded well to William. Let's hope Molly has a similarly positive reaction.'

The host took a sip of his Lagavulin and rolled the liquid on his tongue, to savour all the rich flavours and the two men sat in a companionable silence, each thinking their own thoughts.

ooOoo

Despite the conversation she had had with Arthur, concerning Sherlock's condition, Molly was moved almost to tears when she saw him but encouraged by his response to William. However, nothing had prepared her for Mycroft's revelations, with regard to the circumstances of the deaths of their parents and the effect that had had on the twenty year old Sherlock.

When Molly's own father had passed away, following a long battle with cancer, she had been considerably older than that. However, despite the awful inevitability of his demise, she had still been deeply affected by his ultimate end. She could not begin to imagine how she might react in Sherlock's circumstances, even now, let alone at such a tender age. She just wanted to hold him close and tell him how much she loved him.

After Mycroft took William to his own bedroom and Arthur left the room, they were alone together, at last. She drew a straight-backed chair up to the bedside and began to pour out her feelings but, to her dismay, he turned away, withdrawing still further, rejecting her so emphatically. She felt hurt but also terribly guilty. She deserved this, for how she had reacted after their mistimed visit to the rape counsellor.

But she recalled William's instinctual actions, just an hour earlier, and Sherlock's response to him. It was suddenly obvious that bombarding the man with words was the worst thing she could do. Following Williams' example, she reached out and touched him, through the duvet. She smoothed her hand along the curve of his back, slowly and gently. He didn't recoil.

He felt her hand, very gently, stroking him with long, slow sweeps, through the duvet. She must be stretching right out, to reach him, as he had rolled away from her. It was so comforting. He could almost feel the oxytocin flooding his brain. He relaxed into the touch and eased back towards her hand, grateful for the contact.

It was awkward and uncomfortable for her, stretching out to reach him. She was not sure how he might react, so it was with some trepidation that she climbed onto the bed and lay down behind him, continuing to stroke his body. He felt the movement as she climbed up behind him and laid her head on the pillow, next to the mound of his shoulder. She was so relieved when he rolled back against her. Theirs had always been a very tactile relationship. Sherlock thrived on physical contact, perhaps because he'd missed out on so much, as a child. She wondered why she hadn't realised this in the first place.

The stroking continued. He thought about saying her name but couldn't bring himself to do it. He had barely uttered a word for two days and, the longer he went without speaking, the less he wanted to speak. Speaking required thought; thought required effort. Effort was too much….effort.

Molly pressed against him and reached over his hunched shoulders to hold him to her. With her cheek against his spine, she could hear his heart beat gradually slow, as his breathing deepened and became more regular, but she knew he wasn't asleep. She thought about what Mycroft had said, how long it had taken him to recover from the shock of his parents' tragic death. Is that what lay ahead of him, now? Only he could answer that question, as always, in his own way.

ooOoo


	29. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**** Eight**

Molly opened her eyes. She must have dozed off. That was hardly surprising, under the circumstances. It had been such a busy and stressful couple of weeks and she was exhausted. The question was, what had jolted her out of her doze? Then she heard it again. It was little more than a croak but she recognised the voice and the word.

'Molly?'

She sat up, sharply, and saw, in the dim light seeping under the door from the landing, that Sherlock had rolled onto his back and was looking at her, his eyes glittering in the weak light.

'Yes, I'm here. What do you need?' she asked, quite flustered, wondering if she had missed something, by falling asleep.

Sherlock's mouth was so dry, his tongue felt thick. But, having said her name, it seemed to have dislodged the mental block that was interfering with his speech.

'Some water, please,' he rasped.

'Of course!' she replied and scrambled off the bed, looking round and seeing a plastic beaker on the bedside table, snatched it up and took it into the bathroom. She returned, moments later, with a full cup.

'Sit yourself up,' she prompted.

He pushed himself up with one hand and eased up the bed, to lean on the headboard, as she stood by, with the drink. He took the cup in his hand and drank deeply until it was all gone.

'More?' she asked.

'Please,' he nodded, his voice less croaky now. She was back, very quickly, with a refilled beaker. He took it and drank about half before lowering it onto the night stand.

'Thank you,' he said, with a half smile.

'You really needed that,' she replied.

He reached out and took her hand, plaiting her fingers with his and pressing hers to his lips, which felt soft and moist, from the water.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured, gazing earnestly into her eyes.

'I'm sorry, too, so that makes us even,' she replied, reaching out with her free hand to brush a stray curl behind his ear. 'We've both been really stupid.'

He nodded, looking down.

'Do you think we could call a truce?' she asked.

He nodded, again, let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to him and burying his face in her hair.

ooOoo

Arthur's phone pinged and he took it out of his pocket.

'That's the reminder for Sherlock's medication,' he advised Mycroft and rose to leave the room. 'Thank you for the single malt. It was delicious.'

'My pleasure,' Mycroft replied. 'Would you ask Molly if she would care to join me?'

Arthur nodded and went upstairs. He tapped on the door to Byron and waited. After a few moments, the door opened and Molly beckoned him in. As he entered he saw, illuminated by the light from the landing, Sherlock sitting up in bed, looking toward him.

'Arthur?' he asked, wrinkling his brow.

'You remembered,' the nurse replied, with a cheery grin.

'Why is my mouth so dry?' he asked.

'It's a side-effect of the medication, I'm afraid, but we've reduced the dosage, so it should wear off soon.'

Sherlock reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, squinting at the sudden flood of light. Molly came to stand beside him.

'Is it time for his medication?' she asked and Arthur nodded.

He went through the adjoining bathroom to his own room, where the medication was kept in a locked cupboard. He dispensed the required dose into a small cardboard cup and returned to Byron, filling a beaker with water, in the bathroom on his way through. As he approached the bed, his patient raised his gaze and looked at him, then held out two hands for the beaker and the cup of medication.

Sherlock looked into the cup. These pills were a different colour to the ones he remembered taking earlier. He looked at the nurse.

'Lower dose, same medication,' Arthur explained.

Sherlock looked at the contents of the cup again then shook his head and pushed the medication back at the nurse.

'I don't want to take any more.'

Arthur took back the small container and looked at Molly, who shrugged her shoulders. Sherlock leaned back against the head board and Molly, standing beside him, placed her hand on his arm. He put his on top of hers.

'How long have you been here?' he asked the other man.

'Two days. I got here on Wednesday night. Your brother sent for me. I think it was Dr Matthews' idea.'

'Has she been here too?'

'No, but your brother talked to her on the phone.'

Sherlock raised one arm and sniffed.

'God, I stink,' he remarked. Molly had to agree. He was usually so impeccable in his grooming but there was a definite pungency about his aroma, at the moment.

'Well, you have been in the same bedclothes for two days and without taking a shower, either, so hardly surprising,' Arthur commented. 'You could have a shower now if you like. I think Molly brought some of your own toiletries and stuff. And some PJ's?' He looked at Molly and she nodded.

The patient gave that some thought then pulled back the duvet and swung his legs out of the bed. Arthur offered him a helping hand but he waved it away. He put his arm round Molly's waist and brushed his lips lightly on her cheek, then released her. Standing up, he made his way to the bathroom.

'No funny business, mind,' Arthur advised. 'No jumping out of the bathroom window. I know you of old, remember.'

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissively, and closed the bathroom door behind him.

'The fact that he refused the medication, that's a positive, I think,' Molly stated.

'I think you're probably right. Last time I worked with him, he was very reluctant to take any meds and most definitely not long term. This time, we couldn't give him enough.'

'So you don't think that stopping so suddenly will have negative repercussions?'

'We were reducing the dose, anyway, but I will have to check with Dr Matthews, obviously. However, he's not sectioned so if he chooses not to take the meds, we can't make him.'

She nodded in agreement. Hardly anyone had ever managed to make Sherlock do something he didn't want to do.

'You are absolutely right. And I should know. But the boys need their father back so, let's hope he's doing the right thing.'

She smiled at the nurse.

'I know you are doing your best but I'll try not to expect miracles.'

'I think we might have seen a minor miracle, tonight,' Arthur declared. 'Er, Mr Holmes asked if you'd like to join him. He's in his study,' he advised her.

'OK, I expect he's anxious for an update. Please, tell Sherlock I'll be back in about half an hour.'

She left the room and went downstairs. Arthur went to the large armoire and took out a clean set of bedding, located in a bored moment of browsing, during his two day vigil. He would take this opportunity to change the bed and give his patient a fresh start.

ooOoo

'Taking a shower?' Mycroft looked nonplussed but also delighted. 'That is a very good sign. The last time, he went for weeks without showering and changing his clothes. He lost all interest in caring for himself, didn't even seem to notice the body odour and the bad breath.'

Molly and Mycroft were seated in the study, each with a glass of wine.

'Have you ever wondered why I had control of his Trust Fund, until recently?' he asked.

'Yes, I wondered but I never asked and he never volunteered the information. I assumed he would tell me, if he wanted me to know.'

'After our parents died, because of his illness, he was designated a Vulnerable Adult and I was made his legal guardian so I had control of his Trust Fund. He hated the fact that he had to ask me for money, although I gave him a generous allowance. Unfortunately, when he was using, he could get through a lot of money rather quickly. When I saw his bank balance plummeting, I would have him picked up and brought here. I can see why he would resent that but it was for his own good. Unfortunately, he never saw it that way.'

'Is this why he used to resent you so much?' she asked.

'Not the only reason. We hadn't really hit it off for quite a long time. He always knew that our parents favoured me – not that I encouraged them, it was just their way. But, when he got into Sydney Sussex at Cambridge, our father was actually quite proud of him. He started to take an interest, at last. When he was in the country, he would go up to Cambridge and visit him, take him to supper, make a fuss of him. So, for the first time in his life, really, Sherlock began to feel special – loved, even. As you can imagine, when the accident occurred, it was as though he lost them for a second time.'

Molly felt her heart break for the brothers but especially for the young Sherlock. It went a long way to explaining why he had locked up his emotions for such a long time. He must have been overwhelmed with feelings. It also explained why he had crashed this time. Did he believe he had lost William and Freddie? It must have felt like déjà vu. She hoped he knew now that he had lost nothing, that they were all still here.

Mycroft was speaking again.

'When our parents were eventually found, Sherlock accused me of trying to trick him. Even though he had voiced the opinion, in no uncertain terms, that they could not have possibly survived a plane crash, because I went along with the idea that they may have, he dared to hope it might be true. He told me that I was his big brother and I knew everything, so he had trusted my judgement. He seemed to think I had done it on purpose to give him false hope.'

'Oh, but Mycroft, you know he didn't really mean that. He was distraught!' Molly insisted.

'Of course, I knew that but I was only twenty seven myself, at the time, and doubly bereaved, too. I have to admit, I was angry with him, angry that, because of his breakdown, he demanded so much of my attention that I barely had time to grieve myself.'

Molly heaved a huge, resigned sigh. No one could blame either brother for the way they had felt.

'What a bloody awful mess it must have been. How did you cope?' she asked.

'I just got on with it, I suppose. I did what I had been trained to do, practically since the day I was born. I was the heir so I just took over and carried on.'

'You are a very remarkable man, you do know that, don't you?' Molly stated. He smiled and shook his head.

'As I said, Molly, I just did as I was trained. And I didn't do such a great job with Sherlock. It's taken us until now to learn to trust one another.'

'Considering the amount of ground you had to make up, I'm really not surprised!' she declared.

There was a light tap at the door and Arthur entered the room.

'He's asking for you, Molly,' he informed her.

Molly stood up, crossed to Mycroft and gave him an affectionate hug, smiled her thanks to Arthur and left the room.

'Come and sit down, Arthur,' Mycroft insisted. 'I think this calls for a toast.'

ooOoo

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of the bedroom door opening. He took a moment or two to orient himself then he remembered he was in bed, in Byron, at the family home, and Molly was still sleeping, lying in the circle of his arm, her head tucked under his chin, her arm draped across his chest. Then he heard a voice.

He heard William's voice, hushed but not quite a whisper.

'You can always tell when Daddy is poorly, Freddie, because his face goes furry. And when he gets better, the fur goes away.'

William was standing just inside the door and Freddie was sitting at his feet, having followed him here, at a speedy crawl, from Hamilton, just along the landing.

Sherlock opened his eyes and squinted at two of the three most precious people in his life. Maybe it was time for the fur to go away.

ooOoo


	30. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**I am so rubbish at remembering birthdays and anniversaries and wotnot, so if I've missed anyone, please accept this as a belated birthday gift – or maybe an early one?**

**Chapter Twenty**** Nine**

Irene Adler had a meeting to attend. It was with her solicitor and not before time, either. She had been held on remand for nearly six months, now, such was the tediously pedestrian pace at which the wheels of the British judicial system ground. She had spent that time as an 'inmate' of Holloway women's prison.

That, in itself, was not such a great hardship. The period of time spent on remand would be deducted from her eventual term, so it made no odds to her how long it took to come before a judge. As a remand prisoner, she enjoyed certain privileges. She was permitted, for example, to wear her own clothes but, since she would never trust her designer wear to the less than tender mercies of the prison laundry, she chose to sport the regulation prison garb. This had other advantages. By not setting herself apart from the regular inmates, she was less likely to incur their wrath.

She had managed to forge some quite close bonds with her fellow residents. They referred to her as 'The Duchess', which she found privately amusing, knowing as she did her true roots. Duchess of Belgravia or Duchess of Southend, she wondered. She knew which option she favoured. Some of the women in here were hardened criminals but most were victims of circumstance, in her opinion, driven to crime by poverty, lack of education, lack of opportunity, lack of alternatives. She could relate to that.

Another unexpected bonus of being in Holloway was the reappearance in her life of Kate. When Irene Adler disappeared from the face of the earth, in order to begin her new life as Louisa Bennett, she had been forced to leave Kate behind. It was one of her few regrets. But, when she became front page news and then her remand was reported, Kate had wasted no time in applying for a permit to visit and she had visited regularly ever since.

This gave Irene access to the small luxury items that made incarceration bearable, such as bath oil, cosmetics and designer underwear. Lovely Kate, devoted Kate, loyal Kate who had promised to wait as long as it took and to visit every week, even if Irene were, ultimately, sent to a prison in the back of beyond – even Wales.

There had been any number of meetings with her legal representatives, over the preceding six months, sculpting the pleas for leniency, setting out the mitigating circumstances that had led her to that particular course of action. Some of the finest legal brains in London had worked tirelessly on her behalf. But this meeting was special. Today she would learn the date of her sentencing hearing and she would learn the name of the judge who would deliver the sentence.

Irene was shown into the interview room, where she was greeted by her solicitor and his clerk. They shook hands all round and then sat down to begin their discussions.

'Do we have a date for the court appearance?' she asked, cutting straight to the chase.

'We do, Miss Adler. It's two weeks from today.'

Irene sat for a moment, assimilating that piece of information, then spoke again.

'And who will be sitting?'

The solicitor checked his notes and read out,

'His Honour Judge Bertram Colley will be presiding.'

'Oh, Bertie!' Irene almost squealed with delight.

'Do you know him?' the solicitor asked.

Irene crossed one leg over the other and put a perfectly manicured finger to her chin, then replied, with a coy smile,

'I know what he likes.'

ooOoo

'Damn that woman!'

Mycroft rarely resorted to expletives but there were occasions when nothing else seemed to fit the bill.

'What woman's that?' asked Arthur, entering the Summer Drawing Room, carrying a tea tray and back-heeling the door closed before placing the tray on the occasional table.

'Adler,' Mycroft hissed, putting more venom into those two syllables than would seem possible.

'What's the bitch done now?' Arthur enquired, pouring a measure of tea, adding a splash of milk and handing the cup and saucer to the other man.

'See for yourself,' Mycroft huffed, holding the newspaper out towards Arthur and accepting the tea with a grateful smile.

Arthur leant on the wing of the sofa where Mycroft was sitting, and perused the newspaper in his hand, scanning the brief court report of Irene's sentencing hearing. He gasped, in disbelief.

'Verdict reduced to Aiding and Abetting? How the hell did she manage that?' he exclaimed. 'Sentenced to three years, less six months already served on remand? That's a bloody joke!' he spat, tossing the newspaper across the room, onto the sideboard, and flopping down onto the sofa, before picking up his own cup and saucer.

'Miss Adler is a very resourceful woman and she knows a lot of influential people. I suspect she used her feminine whiles on the judge.'

'Well, I expect she used more than that on the old pervert, back in the day,' Arthur quipped. 'But that is just not right. Could the police not object to the judge?'

'No, unfortunately not, since they don't have the authority. The family could appeal the sentence but it would be an expensive process and, somehow, I don't think they would be up to taking on that challenge. I'd gladly finance them myself, if I thought they were capable of withstanding the emotional stress but they would have to sit through a hearing, where the evidence would be gone over, in all its graphic detail. I don't feel that would be in their best interests, somehow.'

Arthur sipped his tea and mulled over Mycroft's analysis of the situation.

'I suppose that is the price we pay for a judicial system like ours. Ultimately, justice comes down to one person's opinion – or bias,' he concluded.

Mycroft smiled. That was one of the many things he liked about Arthur, his ability to see to the very crux of an issue. He was a very insightful person. He still couldn't quite believe his luck. Everything about their relationship was something of a cliché. The way they met – concerned relative falls for pretty young nurse or, in this case, handsome – was straight out of 'Jackie'. And how they moved from enjoying each other's company to enjoying each other's bodies had been straight out of Mills and Boon.

It was when Sherlock was deemed to be sufficiently recovered as to no longer need the ministrations of a psychiatric nurse and it looked as though Arthur might walk out of his home and his life, never to be seen again, that Mycroft finally plucked up the courage to make advances. At that point, it all could have gone horribly pear-shaped, if he had somehow misread the signals he thought he was getting from the other man. Fortunately, he hadn't. Four months into their relationship, everything seemed to be going ridiculously well.

Arthur was approaching his 'nine years of military service' milestone and had already decided to leave the Army and have a stab at civilian life. He still wished to follow a career in psychiatric nursing and even continue to specialise in PTSD but he felt there were plenty of opportunities to do that in the NHS and, possibly, a more fruitful career path, too. Meeting Mycroft had just been the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to the working class boy from the council estate in Lancashire. Falling in love with him had been the most foolhardy. But finding himself loved right back – was this someone's idea of a prank? He might have called it a modern fairy tale, but for the obvious pun that that phrase implied.

'Well, there's no point getting your hair off over it,' the younger man declared, reaching across to run his hand over the crown of Mycroft's head and adding, affectionately, 'what's left of it, anyway.'

Mycroft frowned at him, over the rim of his tea cup.

'What?' the other man exclaimed, with a cheeky grin, resting his arm on the back of the sofa.

'You know, I would never tolerate such comments from anyone else.'

'Of course, I know, that's why I do it,' he replied, his grin broadening by the moment. 'I'm your bit o' rough so I have to live up to my reputation.'

Mycroft finished his tea and replaced the cup and saucer on the occasional table before resting his hand on the other man's thigh, just above the knee.

'Just because you have a regional accent, it does not mean you're 'rough', as you chose to put it,' he chided.

'Oh, I quite like the idea. I'm your bit o' rough and you're my 'posh tottie', yes?' Arthur suggested, brushing his knuckles down Mycroft's cheek.

Mycroft shook his head but could not contain the chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

'You are incorrigible,' he reprimanded the younger man, with mock disapproval. 'And, for future reference, I will be your 'posh tottie', if you like, but you will always be my Serendipity.'

Arthur put his own cup and saucer down and leant toward Mycroft, sliding one hand gently round the back of his neck and resting the other on his shoulder.

'Oh, I love it when you talk dirty,' he sighed and pressed his lips to the other man's.

Mycroft drew Arthur into his arms and returned the kiss, with exquisite tenderness and a reciprocal sigh, silently blessing the day that the tall, handsome soldier nurse entered his world. It was one thing for which he would be eternally grateful to Sherlock, in spite of the unfortunate circumstances that led to this meeting of souls. It was rather ironic, though, that the only person he had ever put in his brother's path had been the cause of that misfortune.

Abruptly, Arthur pulled away and looked into Mycroft's eyes.

'What are you going to tell Sherlock, about the Adler woman?' he asked, concerned for his former patient and the brother of the man he adored. Mycroft was momentarily taken aback. Good Lord, were they reading one another's thoughts, now?

'Nothing, for the time being,' he replied. 'I'll wait until they get back. No point spoiling their trip. But Miss Adler may not be so grateful that the judge only gave her three years. Those terrorists, they have very long memories and infinite patience, so I understand.'

Arthur nodded and smiled then said,

'Mycroft, why are we snogging on the sofa when there's a three hundred year old antique bed, upstairs, with our name on it?'

'I thought you liked to rough it, 'Mycroft replied, with an innocent shrug.

Arthur looked around. Not in any manner of speaking could anyone describe this elegant drawing room as 'rough'. However, on that subject,

'Nine years in the army is enough 'roughing it' for me, thanks,' he declared. 'The minute I get my discharge papers, I'm kissing my 'roughing it' days good bye. And besides,' he added, injecting a serious note into his voice, 'my leave is almost over. I have to report back for duty tomorrow, so let's not waste a minute of the time we have left, eh?'

He climbed off the sofa, offered his hand to Mycroft and pulled him to standing, where they stood for a moment, face to face, meeting each other's gaze, then, with their fingers loosely linked, Arthur led the way from the room and up the stairs.

ooOoo


End file.
